Forward Pass: A Story of the "New Football"

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Chapel at half-past seven in Assembly Hall, the fellows sitting by classes on the old, knife-scarred benches, and “Old Toby,” as the principal was called, reading from the Bible in his pleasant, mellow, English voice; afterwards an invocation by Mr. Collins or Mr. Frye, the boys joining together at the end in the Lord’s Prayer; then announcements by Mr. Collins, the singing of a hymn and a decorous exit as far as the door turning to a wild, riotous stampede down the two flights of stairs.

Breakfast at eight; a good breakfast, too—all the milk you wanted to drink, or coffee or cocoa; steak or chops or eggs and bacon, with big steaming-hot baked potatoes and toast or rolls. Dan’s expression grew beatific. He had his regular place in commons now, and if all went well he would go to one of the football training tables in a week or so. He didn’t know any of the fellows at his table very well yet, but he was becoming better acquainted every day. The chap at his left—his name was Paul Rand—kept a jar of orange marmalade and was very generous with it. Dan rather liked Rand—or the marmalade; he wasn’t certain which.

At nine o’clock there was a Latin recitation in Oxford G, with Mr. Collins. Dan wasn’t awfully fond of Latin, but he accepted it philosophically as a necessary evil. French was better. That came at half-past nine. The instructor was Mr. von Groll, a great favorite with the fellows. He was just out of college, an Amherst A.B., and hadn’t yet forgotten what it was to be a boy. After French there was a half-hour in which to brush up on math. And it was a pretty good thing to brush up on, as Dan had already learned. For Mr. McIntyre—“Kilts” was his popular name—was pretty severe. “Kilts” wasn’t very well liked; there was a general idea prevalent that he had long since forgotten the first two letters of the alphabet; anyhow, it was an event in school when he awarded a B to anyone, while as for an A! Tradition had it that he had never marked a student with an A but once, and that it so upset him that he was ill for a week.

In the school catalogue he figured as Angus McIntyre, A.A., Edinburgh. That “A.A.,” which really stood for Associate of Arts, was variously interpreted by the boys as “Almost Anything,” “Abominable Algebra” and “Acrimonious Angus.” They said he had tacked so many A’s onto his name that he had none left for his pupils. In age he was somewhere about fifty, tall, lean, smooth-shaven, with a shock of iron-gray hair and piercing, deep-set eyes. Yardley didn’t love Kilts, but at the same time it was proud of him. He had written numerous books on higher mathematics, and, as one of his students had said in a moment of grudging admiration, “could take Euclid by the back of the neck and shake the change out of his trousers.” So far Dan had got along pretty well with Kilts.

After mathematics there was nothing to do to-day until dinner time, unless he was wise enough to study. At two there was English with Mr. Gaddis, a big, bullet-headed, good-natured man of thirty-six who would have looked more at home on the football field than in the class room. Old Tige was the name awarded him, probably because of a likeness to an unlovely, kind-dispositioned bulldog. The fellows liked Old Tige, even while they made fun of him; and there was no doubt about his ability as an instructor of the English Language.

At four came football practice. Dan’s heart warmed at the thought of it. He was getting on down there on the field, was Dan. Already he had been accepted as a possibility at end. That didn’t mean a great deal, for early-season possibilities often become late-season impossibilities, but Dan was encouraged and was doing his level best to make good. He had plenty of speed, followed the ball as a cat follows a mouse, and barring lack of weight, seemed to have the making of an ideal end. And whether he made the team or not, he was having a lot of good fun out of it and, better yet, was making acquaintances and friends. He knew lots and lots of fellows well enough to speak to now, while several had asked him to their rooms. He hadn’t gone yet, but he meant to. Alf Loring was very friendly, but Dan didn’t seem to get very far with him. He was sorry, too, for he liked Loring thoroughly, liked him better than ever since he had seen him run the first team in the scrimmages with which the practice ended nowadays. Loring was a wonderful quarter-back; there was no doubt about that. Dan wished that he might know him better. But Alf Loring was one of the popular fellows in school and doubtless had as many friends now as he wanted, Dan reflected. Perhaps in time—. Well, meanwhile there was his fidus Achates, Tubby Jones. Dan looked across at Tubby’s inert form and smiled.

After practice came a jolly half-hour in the gymnasium, while the fellows took their showers, dressed and talked over the day’s events. Then supper and a clear hour of loafing; only to-night was letter night for Dan, and letter writing would take the place of a loaf. Then study from eight to nine or half-past, or, in case Tubby’s friends didn’t happen in, until ten. And then bed again. A busy day, but a happy one, thought Dan.

But now the knot on the closet door was looking back at him warningly and Dan, his thoughts returning at a bound to the present, leaped out of bed, shut the window and called to Tubby.

“Seven o’clock and past, Tubby! You’ll be late for Chapel!”

“Don’t care if I am,” growled Tubby.