CHAPTER IV
RECRUITS FOR THE FOOTBALL SQUAD
On the following Tuesday—the day of the imposing appearance before the school of President John Smith—Hardie, having at last secured his playing clothes, presented himself on the field. His arrival aroused no very flattering comment, partly because nothing in particular was expected from him, partly because of the company in which he came. Saturday’s disappointment had caused a flurry of energy on the part of the football leaders, and the school had been sifted anew for material. As a result Fat Bumpus was strained out, and little McDowell, who, though lithe and sinewy as an alley tomcat, and eager as a hound tugging at the leash, was manifestly below the standard of weight. He came via the third team, on which he had distinguished himself in the game with Wood’s third, played on the Saturday on which the first had failed so conspicuously at Suffolk. These three, Bumpus the fat, McDowell the small, and Hardie the unpretending, formed the last group of recruits available to reënforce the battle line of Westcott’s.
The side-line comments would have been sufficient to put all three to speedy flight, if the contemptuous words had reached their ears. Stover, the ball player, stood with Hargraves who didn’t like football and Reeves whose forte was dancing and “fussing,” and made very merry over the faults of their schoolmates, dwelling with unwearied if not brilliant wit on the appearance of the newcomers, and enjoying the audience of gaping small boys who surrounded them.
“They ought to tie a string to it and give Fatty the end,” said Stover, as Bumpus groped sprawling after the ball which Harrison had rolled toward him. “It’s cruelty to animals to make him root around like that.”
“The best way would be to put him sideways in the line on his hands and knees. No one could get past him then,” remarked Reeves.
“They’d have to call time to get him up again.”
“Did you see that?” broke in Hargraves. “Hardie got the ball at the first try!”
“It must have been an accident; he hasn’t sand enough in him to do it purposely.” This was Stover’s opinion.
A furious but futile charge on the part of Marshall, a clumsy but energetic hanger-on of the second, drew the fire of the trio. “That’s the spirit!” chuckled Hargraves. “Dig up the dirt with your face, my boy! Football is the game!”
“There goes Mac!” cried a shrill voice close at hand.