RIGHT HALF HOLLINS
[CHAPTER I]
TOMMY PARISH, CRITIC
“Put some glue on your hands, Chick!” advised Tommy Parish in a clear, carrying voice from his seat in the front row of the stand. The sally gained a ripple of laughter from the somewhat apathetic audience. Bert Hollins, huddled under a blanket on the players’ bench, a few yards away, turned a mildly indignant countenance toward Tommy and was met with a wide grin and a jovial wink. Across the field, Chick Burton, right end, captured the trickling pigskin and tossed it disgustedly toward the referee. The disgust was natural, for Chick had just missed his third forward-pass in that quarter.
Alton Academy was playing its first game of the season, with Southport School, and the third period was well along. Southport had scored a field-goal in the first quarter and Alton a touchdown in the second. Nip Storer had failed to kick the goal after the latter event. It had been drizzling ever since noon, and a wet ball and a slippery field were not making for brilliant playing. For that matter, however, even had the weather conditions been of the best it is doubtful if either team would have put up a good game, for both were slow and ragged, missing numerous opportunities to score and plainly badly in need of practice. Perhaps Chick Burton was no worse than the others, but that was a matter of opinion, and Tommy Parish’s opinion was to the effect that Chick was the principal offender of the afternoon. If Chick had caught just one of the throws from Jim Galvin, Alton would be in possession of twelve points instead of six. At least, so Tommy thought.
Tommy sat with his knees hunched up almost to his chin and munched peanuts. Tommy was usually munching something. He was a short, heavy youth with a round face and a liability to boils on the back of his brief neck. Indeed, it was quite an unfamiliar sight to see Tommy without at least one protective arrangement of gauze and plaster between his collar and the edge of his pale brown hair. Because his seat was in the front row of the grand-stand, he was able to perch his feet on the edge of the barrier and so form a sort of trough between legs and stomach for the accommodation of his bag of peanuts. When not dipping into the bag or deftly detaching the shells from their contents he snuggled his hands under the edge of his thick blue sweater. Since Tommy never wore a hat at school—whatever he did at home—a fact which may account to some extent for the faded tone of his hair, he presented a rather damp and bedraggled appearance. Drops trickled down his somewhat button-like nose, encircled his slightly protrusive ears and quivered on his round chin as it moved ceaselessly and rhythmically during the process of mastication. But if moist, he was quite happy. Give Tommy something to eat and something to look on at and weather conditions meant nothing in his young life. His was a cheerful disposition, and if those who smarted under the frank expressions of his judgment frequently wanted very, very much to murder him, Tommy cared not a whit. He believed in being outspoken, in giving candid publicity to his opinions; in short, Tommy hewed to the line and let the chips fall wherever they blame pleased!
The game went on, Southport capturing the ball after Fitz Savell, playing at half, had let it ooze from his arms. Tommy set his strong, white teeth on a particularly attractive peanut and observed reproachfully, “Why don’t you hand it to him, Fitz, ’stead of making him pick it up that way? Where’s your manners, boy?”
Homer Johnson, two rows back, reached a long leg across the intervening seat and placed a foot against the back of Tommy’s head. Tommy’s head went suddenly forward with a jerk and two peanuts fell to the wet boards, a total loss. “Cut out the merry quips, Tommy,” advised Homer. “You weary me.”
Tommy turned his head cautiously. As a matter of fact he happened to be free from boils at the moment, but affliction had taught him caution in the matter of moving his neck and it had become second-nature. He observed Homer without rancor. “Hello,” he said. “Great game, isn’t it?”