Dinner—or luncheon as it really was—was served in a small and very musty smelling room on the second floor, a room evidently dedicated to the yearly banquets of the Odd Fellows and the annual conclave of the local Order of White Elephants. There was a faded red carpet on the floor and three long walnut tables were arranged around as many sides of a square. The chairs matched the tables and dated back to about the period of the Hayes and Tilden campaign. But the food wasn’t bad and the two coloured waiters, in spite of the infirmities of age, managed to get it to the table fairly hot.
After the meal was finished Coach Driscoll explained the plans for the afternoon game. Phillipsburg Academy had a light-weight and supposedly speedy team that relied on passing and running more than on line-smashing. Her punters were exceptionally good and her ends fast. To meet the Phillipsburg style of offence Parkinson would play her ends back and her tackles out, with Stone and Warden dividing the field. Phillipsburg made use of both the “bunch” and the “one-man” pass and used a lateral pass as well. If Phillipsburg switched her attack to the centre of the line, the Parkinson tackles were to come in again, but there were always to be two men up the field. On attack the Brown-and-White was to try out several new running plays and to use the forward-pass whenever practical inside the neutral zone.
“We’ve got a good chance, fellows,” said Mr. Driscoll, “to try out our passing and end-running plays against a team who has a scientific defence against them. If we make our passes go we’ll have reason to be a bit satisfied with ourselves, for Phillipsburg has worked out a pretty good defence against the passing game. What she can do to stop end-runs remains to be seen. But you’ve got to start quick today and run hard and watch the holes, you backs. You’ve got to show about twice the speed you showed against Cumner last week. If you don’t, these chaps will make you look mighty poor.
“I’m going to see that every fellow has a look-in at some time during the game. We may lose the game, but we’re going to get experience. Mind, I’m not saying we shall lose it or that we ought to, because I don’t think for a moment that Phillipsburg is a bit better than we are, even if we use third-string players. If you’ll use your heads today, and play as fast as you know how, you’ll come out on top. I want to see that Number 12 play go smoothly today. It’s a winner if you pull it right, but you’ve got to get together on it. All right. Any questions, fellows?”
A few minutes later they crowded into two yellow trolley cars and went bouncing and swaying out toward the Academy, a mile from town. Dick had held a few hurried words with Stanley and Blash in the lobby. Rusty, it seemed, had disappeared while they had been having lunch in a white-enamelled place down the block and hadn’t turned up since. “He’s probably up to some idiotic tomfoolery,” grumbled Stanley, “and we’ll have to go to the police station later and bail him out, I suppose. Well, good luck, Dick! Hope you get into it. If you do, remember the Maine and all that sort of thing!”
The squad changed into football togs in a room assigned to their use in the Academy gymnasium and at a few minutes past two went across the elm-shaded school yard to the athletic field beyond. A tall youth with an embarrassed manner and a prominent Adam’s apple, the assistant manager of the Phillipsburg team, personally conducted them. The game was scheduled for half-past two and already the stands were well sprinkled with spectators. A cheering section of some hundred or so Parkinsonians was already in place and the Brown-and-White trotted onto the field to a quite noisy reception. Three squads took the gridiron for signal drill and the punters got busy. Dick accompanied the latter and punted and caught for a good fifteen minutes, getting rather warm during the proceedings. Phillipsburg arrived at two-twenty and hustled out for a warming-up. By that time the stands were about filled and the cheering was on in earnest. Then the teams retired to their benches, the captains met in midfield, shook hands and watched the flicking of a coin, and Bob Peters waved toward the south goal.
“Means we won the toss,” commented Jerry Wendell, right tackle. “Well, here goes!” Dick laid strong hands on Wendell’s sweater and the latter squirmed out like a moth from a chrysalis.