For the good of the team

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“I’ve seen his sort before,” said Stuart. “They start out with the idea of changing everything, but they soon get over it.” He smiled patiently. “That straight football guff’s mighty old stuff. It won’t win games to-day. He’ll get over it. Got any more eggs, Whitey?”

Reaching the field at half-past ten—a few minutes beyond that time, as a matter of fact, but if the captain can’t be late, who can?—Stuart concluded at first glance that Mr. Haynes had again failed to put in an appearance, and he wasn’t altogether displeased. This new coach seemed to be acting rather cocky, Stuart thought, and being late to practice might tone down some of his assurance. But a second look showed a stranger there. The fact that he was in togs quite as disreputable as any being worn there had disguised him. He was talking to Miles Whittier, the assistant manager, when Stuart made himself known. Mr. Haynes shook hands cordially, but, Stuart thought, without as much empressement as the situation called for. While they talked Stuart studied the other and was conscious of a slight feeling of disappointment. Perhaps the description he had heard was to blame. At all events, the coach was much more of a “regular fellow” than Stuart had unconsciously pictured him. He was small, perhaps, but the fact didn’t impress you greatly because he was remarkably well built. He was younger than Stuart had suspected, too; surely not more than twenty-six. He was good looking, but the good looks were more a matter of expression than of features, for the latter were irregular. There was a short nose and a rather long upper lip, a firm mouth and a square jaw, keen dark-brown eyes and a wide forehead under hair that appeared to have a suspicion of red in it. He had a pleasant smile and an agreeable voice, and yet Stuart somehow felt a trifle uncomfortable while they conversed. Perhaps it was the penetrative quality of the straight, unwavering regard of the coach that was responsible.

For Alan Haynes was doing a little studying, too. He wanted very much to learn what sort of a youth this was with whom he was to work. What conclusions he reached I do not know. He saw, however, a straight, well-made boy of a trifle more than normal height and weight for his years, with the good looks of regular features and perfect health. I doubt if he read any antagonism, for I don’t think that Stuart was conscious of any, but I think he surmised that behind the blue-gray eyes there lay a touch of arrogance, and perhaps the corners of the pleasantly-smiling mouth hinted that its owner was self-willed. Maybe because of such surmises, the coach paid the most respectful deference to Stuart’s words, and the latter mentally concluded that Wallace Towne’s characterization of the new coach had been overdrawn. Probably, he thought, the other had talked sort of big to impress Wallace. There was no harm in that just so long as he didn’t try it on him!

“We’d better get together this evening, Harven,” the coach was saying, “and talk things over. Suppose I drop in at your room? I haven’t found quarters yet, and my room at the hotel is just a box.”

“Suits me, Mr. Haynes. I’m in Lacey, the second dormitory on the Lane; Number 12; one flight. How about eight o’clock?”

“Perfect. Well, shall we get them started?”

After practice the coach had company on the way back to the village. “The Laird” was taking a dozen or so pairs of football shoes to the repair shop. He had them tied together by the lacings and slung over his shoulder as the coach fell into step beside him. His real name was Angus McCranie and he looked as Scotch as his name sounded. It was always somewhat of a disappointment, though, to hear The Laird speak, for it was only in moments of excitement that his native burr was used. He had been trainer at Manning for nearly a dozen years and had become as much a part of the institution as Manning Hall or Old Jarratt, the Greek and Latin professor, or even Doctor Gurley himself. He was short and leanly muscular, with grizzled hair and pale blue eyes that shone startlingly bright from under thick tufts of brows and from a seamed face that, summer or winter, was always the color of a well-worn saddle. In age, The Laird was, by his own confession, “upwards of thirty.” The register in the little town of his birth would have proved him well over forty. But age was of small importance in his case. He was still as spry, to all appearances, as he had been a dozen years since; and another score of years would make little difference.

“And what did you think of the lads, sir?” asked The Laird, as they took the turn of High Street near Manning Society House.