Behind the Line: A Story of College Life and Football

  CHAPTER XVI

  ROBINSON SENDS A PROTEST

  When Sydney left Mills that morning he trundled himself along Elm Streetto Neil's lodgings in the hope of finding that youth and telling him ofhis good fortune. But the windows of the first floor front study werewide open, the curtains were hanging out over the sills, and from withincame the sound of the broom and clouds of dust. Sydney turned histricycle about in disappointment and retraced his path, through ElmLane, by the court-house with its tall white pillars and green shutters,across Washington Street, the wheels of his vehicle rustling through thedrifts of dead leaves that lined the sidewalks, and so back to Walton.He had a recitation at half-past ten, but there was still twenty minutesof leisure according to the dingy-faced clock on the tower of CollegeHall. So he left the tricycle by the steps, and putting his crutchesunder his arms, swung himself into the building and down the corridor tohis study. The door was ajar and he thrust it open with his foot.

  "Please be careful of the paint," expostulated a voice, and Sydneypaused in surprise.

  "Well," he said; "I've just been over to your room looking for you."

  "Have you? Sorry I wasn't--Say, Syd, listen to this." Neil dragged apillow into a more comfortable place and sat up. He had been stretchedat full length on the big window-seat. "Here it is in a nutshell," hecontinued, waving the paper he was reading.

  "'First a signal, then a thud, And your face is in the mud. Some one jumps upon your back, And your ribs begin to crack. Hear a whistle. "Down!" That's all. 'Tis the way to play football.'"

  "Pretty good, eh? Hello, what's up? Your face looks as bright as thoughyou'd polished it. How dare you allow your countenance to express joywhen in another quarter of an hour I shall be struggling over my head inthe history of Rome during the second Punic War? But there, go ahead;unbosom yourself. I can see you're bubbling over with delightful news.Have they decided to abolish the Latin language? Or has the faculty beenkidnaped? Have they changed their minds and decided to take me with 'emto New Haven to-morrow? Come, little Bright Eyes, out with it!"

  Sydney told his good news, not without numerous eager interruptions fromNeil, and when he had ended the latter executed what he called a "Punicwar-dance." It was rather a striking performance, quite stately andimpressive, for when one's left shoulder is made immovable by muchbandaging it is difficult, as Neil breathlessly explained, to display_abandon_--the latter spoken through the nose to give it the correctFrench pronunciation.

  "And, if you're not good to me," laughed Sydney, "I'll get back at youin practise. And I'm to be treated with respect, also, Neil; in fact, Ibelieve you had better remove your cap when you see me."

  "All right, old man; cap--sweater--anything! You shall be treated withthe utmost deference. But seriously, Syd, I'm awfully glad. Glad allaround; glad you've made a hit with the play, and glad you've foundsomething to beat Robinson with. Now tell me again about it; where do Icome in on it?"

  And so Sydney drew a chair up to the table and drew more diagrams of thenew play, and Neil looked on with great interest until the bell struckthe half-hour, and they hurried away to recitations.

  The next day the varsity and substitutes went to New Haven. Neil wasn'ttaken along, and so when the result of the game reached thecollege--Yale 40, Erskine 0--he was enabled to tell Sydney that it wasinsanity for Mills and Devoe to expect to do anything without his(Neil's) services.

  "If they will leave me behind, Syd, what can they hope for save rout anddisaster? Of course, I realize that I could not have played, but mypresence on the side-line would have inspired them and have been very,very helpful. I'm sure the score would have been quite different, Syd."

  "Yes," laughed the other; "say fifty to nothing."

  "Your levity and disrespect pains me," mourned Neil.

  But despite the overwhelming nature of the defeat, Mills and Devoe andthe associate coaches found much to encourage them. No attempt had beenmade to try the new defensive play, but Erskine had managed to make herdistance several times. The line had proved steady and had borne thesevere battering of the Yale backs without serious injury. The Purple'sback-field had played well; Paul had been in his best form, Gillam hadgained ground quite often through Yale's wings, and Mason, at full-back,had fought nobly. The ends had proved themselves quick and speedy ingetting down under punts, and several of the Blue's tries around end hadbeen nipped ingloriously in the bud. But, when all was said, theprincipal honors of the contest had fallen to Ted Foster, Erskine'splucky quarter, whose handling of the team had been wonderful, andwhose catching and running back of punts had more than once turned thetide of battle. On the whole, Erskine had put up a good, fast,well-balanced game; had displayed plenty of grit, had shown herself welladvanced in team-play, and had emerged practically unscathed from ahard-fought contest.

  On Monday Neil went into the line-up for a few minutes, displacing Paulat left-half, but did not form one of the heroic tandem. His shoulderbothered him a good deal for the first minute or two, but after he hadwarmed up to the work he forgot about it and banged it around so thatSimson was obliged to remonstrate and threaten to take him out. On thesecond's twenty yards Neil was given a chance at a goal from placement,and, in spite of his right shoulder, and to the delight of the coaches,sent the leather over the bar. When he turned and trotted back up thefield he almost ran over Sydney, who was hobbling blithely about thegridiron on his crutches.

  "Whoa!" cried Neil. "Back up! Hello, Board of Strategy; how do you findyourself?"

  "That was fine, Neil," said Sydney.

  "What?"

  "That goal."

  "Glad you liked it. I was beastly nervous," he laughed. "Had no idea Icould do it. It's so different trying goals in a game; when you're justoff practising it doesn't seem to bother you."

  "Oh, you'll do. Gale is growling like a bear because they took him out."

  "Is he?" asked Neil. "I'm sorry. Do you know whether he stands a goodshow for the game? Have you heard Mills or Devoe say anything about it?"Sydney shook his head.

  "I'm afraid Gillam's got us both boxed," continued Neil. "As for me, Isuppose they'll let me in because I can sometimes kick a goal, but I'mworried about Paul. If he'd only--Farewell, they are lining up again."

  "I don't believe Gale will get into the Robinson game," thought Sydneyas he took himself toward the side-line. "He seems a good player,but--but you never can tell what he's going to do; half the time he justsort of slops around and looks as though he was doing a favor byplaying. I can't see why Neil likes him so well; I suppose it's becausehe's so different. Maybe he's a better sort when you know himreal well."

  After practise was ended and the riotous half-hour in the locker-housewas over, Neil found himself walking back to the campus with Sydney andPaul. Paul entertained a half-contemptuous liking for Sydney. To Neil hecalled him "the crip," but when in Sydney's presence was careful neverto say anything to wound the boy's feelings--an act of considerationrather remarkable for Paul, who, while really kind at heart, wasoftentimes careless about the sensibilities of others. This afternoonPaul was evidently downcast, too downcast to be even cross.

  "Well, I guess it's all up with me," he said as they passed through thegate and started down Williams Street toward college. "I'm glad you'reback, chum, but I can see my finish."

  "Nonsense," said Neil, "you'll be back to-morrow. Gillam is putting up astar game, and that's a fact; but your weight will help you, and if youbuckle down for the next few days you'll make it all right."

  But Paul refused to be comforted and remained silent and gloomy all theway home. Knowing how Paul had set his heart upon making the varsity forthe Robinson game, Neil began to be rather worried himself. He felt,unnecessarily of course, in a measure responsible for the crowning ofhis friend's ambition. When he had prevailed on Paul to relinquish theidea of going to Robinson, he had derided the possibility of Paulfailing to make the Erskine team; and now that possibility was rapidlyassuming the appearance of a probability.
Certainly the fault wasPaul's, and not his; but the thought contained small comfort.

  Next day's practise, in preparation for Erskine's last game before theRobinson contest, proved Paul's fears far from groundless. Gillam, Neil,and Mason started work when the line-up was formed, and Paul looked onheart-brokenly from the bench. It was not until Neil had failed twiceand succeeded once at field-goals, and Gillam had been well hammered bythe second's tandem plays, that Paul secured a chance. Then Neil wastaken out and his friend put in.

  Neil wrapped a frayed gray blanket about his shoulders and reflectedruefully upon events. He knew that he had played poorly; that he hadtwice tied up the play by allowing his thoughts to wander; that hisend-running had been slow, almost listless, and that his performance atgoal-kicking had been miserable. He had missed two tries from placement,one on the twenty yards and another on the twenty-seven, and had onlysucceeded at a drop-kick by the barest of margins. He couldn't even laythe blame on his injured shoulder, for that was no longer a factor inhis playing; the bandages were off and only a leather pad remained toremind him of the incident. No, he had simply worried his stupid headover Paul's troubles, he told himself, and had thereby disappointed thecoaches, the captain, and himself. Simson found him presently and senthim trotting about the field, an exercise that worked some of his gloomoff and left him in a fairly cheerful frame of mind when he ran up thelocker-house steps.

  But at dinner he found that his appetite had almost deserted him. Simsonobserved him gravely, and after the meal was over questioned closely.Neil answered rather irritably, and the trainer's uneasiness increased;but he only said:

  "Go to bed early to-night and lay off to-morrow. You'll be better byMonday. And you might take a walk to-morrow afternoon; go off into thecountry somewhere; see if you can't find some one to go with you. How'sthe shoulder? No trouble there, is there?"

  "No, there's no trouble anywhere; I just wasn't hungry."

  "Well, you do what I've told you and you'll get your appetite back, myboy."

  Neil turned away frowning and took himself to his lodging, feeling angrywith Simson because he was going to keep him off the field, and angrywith himself because--oh, just because he was.

  But Neil was not the only person concerned with Erskine athletics whowas out of sorts that night. A general air of gloom had pervaded thedinner-table. Mills had been even silenter than usual; the three othercoaches present had been plainly worried, and Simson, in spite of hisattempts to keep the conversation cheerful, had showed that he too wasbothered about something. A bomb-shell had landed in the Erskine campand had exploded in Mills's quarters.

  On the front steps Neil met Cowan. The two always nodded to each other,but to-night Neil's curt salutation went unheeded. Cowan, with troubledface, hurried by him and went up the street toward Mills's rooms.

  "Every one's grouchy to-night," muttered Neil. "Even Cowan looks asthough he was going to be shot."

  Meanwhile the athletic authorities of Erskine and the coaches were metin extraordinary session. They were considering a letter which hadarrived that afternoon from Collegetown. In the letter Robinsonannounced her protest of Thomas L. Cowan, right-guard on the Erskinefootball team, on the score of professionalism.

  "It just means," wailed Foster, who had brought the tidings to Neil andPaul, "that it's all over with us. I don't know what Cowan has to say,but I'll bet a--I'll bet my new typewriter!--that Robinson's right. Andwith Cowan gone from right-guard, where are we? We haven't the ghost ofa show. The only fellow they can play in his place is Witter, and he's apygmy. Not that Witter doesn't know the position, for he does; but he'stoo light. Was there ever such luck? What good is Burr's patent,double-action, self-inking, cylindrical, switch-back defense if wehaven't got a line that will hold together long enough for us to get offour toes? It--it's rotten luck, that's what it is."

  And the varsity quarter-back groaned dolorously.

  "But what does Cowan say?" asked Neil.

  "Don't ask me," said Foster. "I don't know what he says, and I don'tbelieve it will matter. He's got professional written all overhis face."

  "But he played last year," said Paul. "Why didn't they protest himthen?"

  "I'll pass again," answered Foster. "Maybe they hadn't discoveredit--whatever it is--then; maybe--"

  "Listen!" said Neil.

  Some one stamped up the steps and entered the front door. Foster lookedquestioningly at Neil.

  "Cowan?" he whispered. Neil nodded.

  Foster sprang to the study door and threw it open. The light from theroom fell on the white and angry countenance of the right-guard.

  "Cowan," said Foster, "for heaven's sake, man, tell us about it! Is itall right?"

  But Tom Cowan only glared as he passed on up the stairs.