“Tubb is a hard-boiled one, Arn, and I haven’t much hope of him. If I liked him a bit better I suppose I’d take more interest in his career——”
“I wish you’d stop talking like a blooming dictionary,” groaned Arnold. “Now dry up and let me take a fall out of this math.”
That week saw two changes in the Second Team. Sid Creel displaced Watson at center and George Tubb was shifted from B Team to A. He and Mawson were used impartially and in the four games that the Second played against the First that week there appeared to be little choice between them. The same could be as truthfully said of Toby and Roy Frick. Sometimes one started the game and sometimes the other, but each had an equal chance. Toby had his shortcomings and so did his rival, Toby’s concerning individual play and Frick’s generalship. Or, perhaps, leadership would be a better word to use. Somehow, or so it seemed to those whose business it was to note such things, the Second Team showed more life and aggressiveness when Toby’s shrill voice called the signals. For Toby’s voice was shrill when he played quarter, though at other times it was an ordinary tenor of middle register, with a pleasant touch of Long Island fog in it. But that first day, when unexpectedly called on to act as quarter-back, Toby’s nervousness had sent his voice several notes up the scale, and for some reason it had never come down again so long as he was giving signals. Arnold likened it to the yelping of a fox terrier one day, and on the next occasion Toby tried hard to bring it back to normal, with the result that it sounded as hoarse as a frog with a bad cold, and no one could hear him!
But at individual playing of the position, Roy Frick was better. Frick was a tricky runner and frequently squirmed outside tackles for needed gains. And he was a dependable punter. Possibly Toby would have showed up better beside Frick at this time if he had had more faith in his own ability, but he was chary of trusting to his own efforts to advance the ball. On catching punts and running them in, he was not much behind his rival, and at punting he was fast catching up with him. But there was no doubt that from the spectator’s point of view Frick was the man for the job.
There had been no resumption of hostilities between the two. Toby was willing to forgive and forget, although he secretly disliked Frick for the latter’s overbearing manner. For his part, Frick had evidently neither forgiven nor forgotten, but he seemed satisfied to let the matter rest as it was. Toby had an idea that the other frequently ridiculed his playing, for sometimes he caught looks of stifled amusement on the faces of Frick’s cronies. As, however, they were seldom on the bench at the same time and, being in different classes and having different circles of friends, scarcely ever encountered each other off the football field, there was little chance for a clash. At training table Frick sat four places from Toby on the same side of the board; and, anyway, at table personal animosities would not be allowed to flourish. Save for an occasional Sunday, Coach Burtis was always in his place at the head, and he had a watchful eye and a careful ear.
On Friday, contrary to custom, the Second Team was led across to the other gridiron for a twelve-minute bout with the First. The First had not pleased Coach Lyle since the Forest Hill game, and the morrow’s contest, with Brown and Young’s School would demand all the Blue had. Toby was sent in at quarter. He noted two changes in the First Team’s line. Casement was playing right guard in place of Snow and Candee was at center in Simpson’s stead. Coach Burtis had instructed him to give the First’s center and right side the brunt of the line attack, and Toby understood now that the substitutes there were to be put to the test. He wondered if either of them suspected and whether their own coach had instigated the ordeal. He felt a bit sorry for Snow, who was rather light for a guard, and hoped he wouldn’t get used too roughly.
There was no kick-off to-day. Instead, Second was given the ball in the middle of the field. Coaches and trainers hovered about like hawks around a chicken yard, and there was much exhorting and last-moment instructing. First Team had been keyed up to the minute, and faces showed strain and poised bodies tension. Toby had Nelson, Lippman, and Crawford behind him, and it was Lippman he chose for that first attack. His voice yelped, Farquhar, left tackle, trotted over to the right of the line, the signal came, and Lippman, seizing the ball at a hand-pass, smashed ahead. Crawford and Toby piled in behind. The First Team line buckled and snapped back again. Jim Rose, big and pink-cheeked, roared defiance. “Second down! Nine!” shouted the referee. Toby grabbed an arm and pulled Lippman out of the pile. Already he was shouting new signals. Again Farquhar shifted, again Lippman took the pass. But this time he shot obliquely to the left, the whole back-field behind him, and plunged at Snow. Through he went, fighting, squirming, turning! two yards—three—four—Then the rout was stayed. A faint “Down” and the blowing of the whistle came together. Toby arose from some one’s unquiet legs and added another note to his voice:
“That’s the stuff, Second! That’s working! Come on, now! Let’s get ’em again! Signal!”