Hitting the line

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“Can Caner kick?” asked Monty.

“He punts fairly, but he can’t drop. Too bad you aren’t a drop-kicker, Crail. If you were you’d probably have the call over Caner. You’re coming to the table, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t heard anything about it.”

“Oh,” said Ordway, vaguely. “I thought someone said— Well, I must hop it. Come on, Dud. Good-night, fellows.”

“That means you are going,” said Leon, when the others had gone. “I’m awfully glad, Monty.”

“So am I, if it’s so,” replied Monty. “But no one’s said a word to me about it.”

“I fail to see that it’s anything to cheer for,” said Jimmy. “Training tables are horribly monotonous. Steak and baked potatoes, steak and baked potatoes until you want to shriek. And no decent sweet stuff; just rice pudding and soft custards. No pie or cake; nothing but ‘gulp.’ Much better stay where you are, Monty.”

But Monty didn’t, for Monday night saw him installed at the training table in Lothrop, a regular member of the first squad at last. He failed to get Jimmy’s point of view as to the menu, for although there was undeniably a certain lack of variety to be observed, to him the “steak and potatoes, steak and potatoes” tasted mighty well. Monty had normally a good healthy appetite, and during the following ten days that appetite was whetted by the hardest sort of hard work, and the amount of steak and the number of eggs that he caused to disappear would alarm any housekeeper in the land if I divulged them. Manson had left the table, which was accepted as proof that he was of a truth no longer a possibility. Brunswick kept his place, but went about on crutches with his left foot bandaged until it was almost as large as a football. The Saturday defeat caused one or two shifts in the line-up on Monday, but the shifts proved only temporary, as the deposed players fought hard for reinstatement and ultimately secured it. Monty worked like a Trojan, urged on by Manson, who seemed to center all his hopes of a Grafton victory on his pupil. One would have thought from the way in which Manson dogged Monty’s footsteps that everything depended on the latter. The morning practice had vastly improved his throwing, and he was able to get off several good forward-passes during the week. But that task was not often entrusted to him; never, in fact, when Winslow was in. Monty himself couldn’t see that he had made any considerable strides in his playing, but Manson gave him praise more than once, and Coach Bonner proved his satisfaction by almost working Monty off his feet. By the end of the week it was a toss-up between Monty and Caner as regarded their playing and as regarded their chances. Practically both were certain of getting into the two remaining games. The only question was which would be given the preference.

The school was football mad by now, and mass meetings to practice cheers and songs were held thrice a week. Monty attended just one of them and sat far back in the hall with Leon. He didn’t go again because, as he explained, he felt like a fool sitting there and hearing himself cheered. For by that time they were cheering, not only the school and the team as a whole, but the individual players and the coach and the trainer and about everything they could think of. One heard the football songs everywhere and at all times. Fellows whistled them in the dormitories, sang them on the campus and banged them out on the pianos. Study suffered just as it always did at that time of year, but faculty was lenient. To Monty the week passed in whirlwind fashion and almost before he knew it. If it hadn’t been that he was thoroughly tired out by ten o’clock every night he would have been too excited to sleep. To him the one important thing in life now was to satisfy Manson by his playing. After that, he wanted to get into the Mount Morris game and he wanted Grafton to win. He wanted that hard, so hard that he convinced himself that Grafton would win, that there was no chance of her not winning. As to that events proved him wrong, but he was happy in his ignorance.