Right Tackle Todd

by Ralph Henry Barbour

That ended Alton’s threat. For the rest of the game the enemy played it safe, punting and punting again while the Gray-and-Gold sought desperately to again reach scoring distance. Toward the end play slowed up sadly for Alton, Barnhart seemingly at a loss and confusing his signals more than once. Cheswick gave way to Tip Benning and Levering to Tate in the line. Fillmore took Tennyson’s place and Adams and Ness became the halfs. But even fresh men couldn’t stave off defeat, and finally the game came to an end with the home team fairly at a stand-still on her forty-five.

That evening Alton, saddened by the defeat, took second thought. Reference to Mount Millard’s record for the season somewhat eased the pain, for the big team had six victories to its credit, four of them against most worthy adversaries. Consequently, it was fair to assume that Alton, deprived as she had been of her captain and best quarter-backs, to say nothing of the other absentees, had done not so badly after all. Of course a defeat was a defeat, but it need not necessarily be a disgrace, and by Sunday Alton as a whole had reached the cheering decision that her team had performed very creditably. In support of this contention it was rumored that Johnny Cade had shown signs of satisfaction both during and subsequent to the battle. This, however, was only hearsay. In any event, Alton was, it was universally acknowledged, to be congratulated on one thing. She had gone through the Mount Millard game without once showing the hand she was holding for Kenly. Not a single new play had been used. Even the line shifts had been no different. To be sure, Coach Cade had shown the half-dozen Kenly scouts who had openly invaded the Mount Millard stands his new backfield formation, but since he had used it as the basis for only the most ordinary, time-honored plays it was held to be doubtful that the enemy observers would derive much profit from seeing it. Rather oddly—not so oddly, either, if you know human nature—those who now expressed the most pleasure over the withholding of new plays were those who had during the game most vigorously denounced Coach Cade for not using them.

Jim derived little satisfaction from his playing in the Mount Millard contest. He could, he decided, boast of a cut cheek and two fingers of his left hand bandaged together, but of little else. In retrospect it seemed to Jim that he had played like a loon. He had missed interference more often than he cared to think of, he had twice allowed the big Mount Millard guard, who faced him on offense, to get under him and spill him on his face and he had several times failed to open the hole he was expected to. Jim felt extremely depressed whenever he reviewed his activities of that afternoon, failing to take into account, unlike one or two of his team-mates, the fact that Mount Millard had presented a far better opposition than Alton had hitherto experienced.

It rained on Sunday; one of those desultory, half-hearted rains that seem always on the point of letting up, and don’t; and Jim’s spirits became as gloomy as the view from the windows of Number 15. He told himself that it would have been a lot better if he had stuck to the decision he had made last fall and kept firmly away from football. The first rift in the clouds didn’t appear until Monday morning. Then the glint of sunshine that peered through wasn’t very bright. When Jim looked in the letter-box on his way to breakfast he found a letter postmarked at Norwalk. It was a brief and frequently misspelled missive from Webb Todd from which fell a soiled and flabby two-dollar bill. Webb reported that he was working, though the wages weren’t much—Jim thought four dollars and a half a day quite fabulous!—and that he was well and hoped this would find Jimmy the same, and he was sending two dollars. There was more, but this was the gist of it. It was enough to cheer Jim up a little, for he had a genuine affection for Webb, and life didn’t look quite so dark afterwards.

Practice was light that Monday afternoon and there was no visit from the second. The only hostilities that developed were between the first team and the substitutes, and they lasted only ten minutes and were used by the coaches to illustrate the mistakes made on Saturday. On the bench it was confidentially noised that Gus and the others who had gone over to Lakeville Saturday had returned primed with all sorts of invaluable information, and strong in the belief that Kenly had something big up her sleeve that wouldn’t slip into sight before the big game. Kenly, it seemed, had toyed with her opponent, using two full teams in the process of running up a 41 to 0 score, and had showed nothing she didn’t want to. What information the Alton scouts had brought back was mainly concerned with the individual performances of the Kenly players, although certain other features had not escaped their eyes. The general verdict to-day was to the effect that “Kenly has a strong team, all right, but we can lick ’em!”

The usual evening session in the gymnasium came off as usual at seven-thirty, and Coach Cade, chalk in hand, drew diagrams on the blackboard and explained them, after which the plays were walked off. Some of the plays were fairly complicated, and to-night the class seemed duller than usual. Perhaps for that reason Mr. Cade shortened the session. Having, however, released them, he called them back in the next breath.

“Just a minute, fellows!”

The exodus halted short of the doors. Mr. Cade was holding a sheet of paper up.

“Does this belong to any one here?” he asked.

Some of the nearer fellows retraced their steps for a closer view, while a voice from further away asked: “What is it, Mr. Cade?”