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Secret Play

<h2>CHAPTER XV CORWIN WINS</h2> While Fudge, completely exhausted, was being restored to usefulness, Captain Nostrand converted the six points to seven by an easy goal. And before Fudge, assisted by admiring team-mates, had reached the bench the game was over, High School had won, 13 to 6, the North Siders were dejectedly leaving the field and Fudge had leaped into fame! A full eighty-five yards, they called that run, which, allowing for slight exaggeration born of enthusiasm, it was. But Fudge, with becoming modesty, insisted that it hadn’t been a foot over eighty-three! Back in the dressing-room, having recovered breath and presence of mind, Fudge rendered his version of the feat to a respectfully attentive audience. “I saw the fumble and tried to get through, but their center blocked me off and I had to crawl under him. I could almost reach the ball, but not quite; I touched it, I think. Then I dived across for it, knocking a couple of North Siders out of my way, and picked it up right under the nose of that fellow Wightson. My, but he was mad! Then I started down the field, and——” “What did you stop for?” asked some one puzzledly. Fudge’s modesty again asserted itself. “Well,” he answered frankly, “I’m no sprinter; not built for it. I can run a long time, but I’m not fast, if you see what I mean. So I thought that if I could pass the ball to one of you fellows who was a better sprinter I’d do it. You see, it didn’t matter who made the runs so long as we got the touchdown.” Faint murmurs of admiration greeted this noble sentiment. Pete Farrar’s countenance expressed slight amazement. It didn’t sound quite like Fudge. Still, that youth’s expression was so guileless that Pete concluded that perhaps, after all, Fudge was as unselfish as he pictured himself. “There was no one to take it, though,” continued the hero, warming to the narrative; “and so I saw that I’d have to make the score myself. Shores was right after me, and a lot of the others too. Once Shores almost had me, but I swung aside——” “It was Grover who put Shores out,” said Sawin. “I know. It was good work, too,” declared Fudge heartily. “But he wouldn’t have caught me, because I’d got my second-wind by that time, and the rest was easy. With the start I had none of them could have caught me.” “Hm,” said Captain Nostrand, “you sort of hate yourself, don’t you, Fudge?” But the consensus of opinion was that Nostrand’s sarcasm was in poor taste, although perhaps excusable to some extent since envy is a common failing. Nor was Sprague McCoy’s remark thought any better of. McCoy chuckled and observed: “I thought once or twice, Fudge, you were going to lie down and go to sleep! The trouble with you is that you’re geared too high!” Fudge smiled patiently, sweetly, as if to say: “’Twas ever thus! Success is always a target for the shafts of Envy!” At that moment, as if Fate sought to secure an even balance between joy and sorrow, Jim Grover, who had gone to the telephone a minute before, hung up the receiver and faced the others with gloomy countenance. “Wouldn’t that make you sick?” he demanded. “Corwin won!” There was an instant of silence. Then, “Who says so?” demanded McCoy incredulously. “I called up Castle’s. They got it by telephone from Corwin. Twelve to ten. What do you know about that?” Grover kicked disgustedly at a bench. A chorus of dismay arose. “Twelve to ten? How’d we make ten?” “Touchdown, goal and field-goal, of course.” “Isn’t that the limit? Say, they ought to let us play instead of the Varsity!” “We haven’t won a game since Methuselah was in rompers!” “Wait till you hear them roast Lovering! Wow! I wouldn’t be in his shoes for anything!” “Did they say anything about it, Jim?” “No, they just heard the score, that’s all. Gee, I wish Lovering would quit his kindergarten stuff and let us spring some plays! We never will win a game with the sort of things he gives us!” “Well, that comes of putting a fellow who doesn’t know football in as coach,” declared Burns. “It’s up to Lanny White, all right.” “What’s the good of knocking every time we get licked?” demanded Nostrand. “It doesn’t do any good. Wait till you hear what the trouble was before you begin criticising.” “Everyone knows what the trouble is,” responded McCoy gloomily. “Lovering doesn’t care whether we win or lose. All he cares about is Springdale.” “Maybe he’s right,” replied Grover, reflectively and more cheerfully. “After all, if we win that game——” “If we do!” said Thad Brimmer. “But how are we going to if we can’t beat these smaller teams? Bet you anything you like that the Varsity would fall dead if it won a game!” “That’s all right,” Fudge spoke up, “but you’ll all be talking out of the other side of your mouth pretty soon. Dick knows just what he’s doing, and don’t you forget it!” And Fudge, looking unusually belligerent by reason of his inflamed nose, faced them indignantly. “What if we do get beaten by Corwin and Logan and all those little fellows? What we’re after is to smear Springdale, and we’ll do it, too, if we’ll leave Dick Lovering alone and not kick him in the shins every time we get a chance! You make me weary, you gang of grouches!” Fudge was a hero just now and his words were hearkened to with respect. An uncertain murmur of approval followed, and some laughter, and Grover said: “I guess that’s so, fellows. Let’s leave Lovering alone. Anyway, I’m going home. Who’s coming along?” And so, although the Scrub triumphed that day, the Varsity trailed home with a third defeat pinned to it, and the school was at first incredulous, then disgusted and, finally, resentful. Explanations and excuses didn’t satisfy. A few fellows who had journeyed to Corwin and witnessed the game declared that hard luck and not poor work had been to blame for the defeat; that on merit Clearfield should have conquered by at least one score. The school at large listened but was unconvinced. “Beaten again!” it said. “Three games lost out of five played! What sort of a team have we got, anyway? What’s Dick Lovering think he’s doing? Playing ‘give-away’?” There had been extenuating circumstances, however, whether the fellows were willing to believe it or not. Clearfield had distinctly outplayed her opponent in three of the four periods, had gained more ground by rushing, had punted farther and had shown better generalship. In short, she had fairly deserved to win. But there is no denying that success is what counts, and she had not succeeded. She had fought her way half the length of the field for a clean, well-earned touchdown in the second period and had kicked the goal. She had again rushed nearly sixty yards in the third quarter, and, being held for three downs, had sent a field-goal over for three more points. She had secured the ball two minutes later near the Corwin goal and almost scored again, a fumbled ball which every fellow on the eleven declared had been recovered by Tupper, being awarded to Corwin on the latter’s four yards. And, in the final period, when, with the score 12 to 10 against her, she had twice attempted goals from the field, either of which would have given her a victory, Morris Brent had failed dismally to make good. Not once, declared Lanny resentfully, had the luck broken for Clearfield. All during the contest Fortune had glaringly befriended the adversary. Even Corwin’s first touchdown could not be justly said to have been deserved, for the ball had been Clearfield’s on her twelve yards, succeeding a punt by the opponent, and, after off-side penalties had twice been imposed on Clearfield when Corwin had equally offended, a blocked-kick had been downed by Corwin behind High School’s line. But all this failed to impress the supporters of the team and by Monday feeling against Dick, or, perhaps, against what the school termed his system, was running high. One heard criticism everywhere, sometimes mildly sarcastic, more often angry and bitter. Some wag evolved a conundrum that circulated through school: “What’s the matter with the football team?” “Too many Beatons!” Unfortunately for the perfect success of the conundrum, the question elicited so many explanations and theories that the answer, when it arrived, fell rather flat. Just who started the agitation for a mass-meeting to protest against the conduct of football affairs never transpired. But the project met with instant acclaim and a notice suddenly appeared on the bulletin-board in the school corridor Monday noon. The meeting was to be held at eight o’clock Tuesday evening, announced the notice, in the assembly hall, and all students were requested to attend. The signature, “Committee of Twelve,” produced much speculation, but no one could or would throw light on the identity of the twelve. Dick, attracted to the bulletin-board by the group in front of it, read the announcement on his way out of the building in the afternoon. The group faded away as he pushed forward, although several of its component parts halted at a distance to observe the effect on the coach. They had their labor for their pains, for Dick showed neither by attitude nor expression that the notice conveyed anything to him. He passed out with his usual half-smiling gravity, nodding to those he passed, and it was not until he was climbing into his blue runabout that the half-smile faded from his face and his expression became thoroughly serious. At the field Lanny broached the subject laughingly. “Heard about the indignation meeting, Dick?” he asked at the dressing-room door. Dick nodded. “A lot of sore-heads,” Lanny grumbled. “I’ve a good mind to take a bunch of the fellows and bust up the meeting!” “Better let them alone,” counseled Dick. “I don’t much blame them for getting peeved. Still, if you’re going—and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t—I’ll run around and get you about half-past seven.” “You mean that—that you’re going?” asked Lanny in surprise. “Yes, didn’t you notice that the ‘Committee’ wanted everyone to come?” asked Dick, with a twinkle in his eye. “Yes, I shall go, and, if they’ll let me, I’ll have a few words to say.” “I wouldn’t trouble to talk to them,” expostulated Lanny. “Just let them spout and get it off their chests, Dick. It’ll do them good.” “All they want,” said Chester Cottrell, who had joined them, “is a chance to make some speeches and roast some one. Then they’ll forget all about it, Dick.” “Maybe, but they’re dissatisfied with the way I’m running things, Chester, and I don’t want their antagonism toward me to spread to the team. There’s nothing worse than for a school to go back on the team. Every player feels it and it takes the heart out of him. I don’t say that they will do that, but they might, and if I can put things before them so they’ll see, at least, that it isn’t the team’s fault that we’re getting licked so often, I think I’d better. They’re at liberty to roast me as much as they please. I guess any football coach expects a certain amount of that sort of thing, and he can’t afford to be sensitive. Besides, I hope to show them in the end that I’m not as bad as they think!” “All right, Dick,” agreed Lanny, doubtfully, “go ahead and give ’em fits! We’ll go and back you up.” “But don’t go there in a bunch and sit together and try to—well, intimidate them,” smiled Dick. “Free speech for all, Lanny! Let them say what they want to. After they’ve said it I’ll try to satisfy them that there’s nothing wrong with the team, no matter how punk the coach may be!” “And I’ll tell them, by George, that the coach is all right and knows what he’s doing a heap better than they do, the silly galoots!” exclaimed Lanny indignantly. “You sit tight and say nothing,” replied Dick. “Let me do the explaining. All right now. Get your men out. We’re ten minutes late.” <hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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