“What was wrong to-day can be corrected to-morrow,” he ended. “I’m not expecting you fellows to play perfect football yet. I’m satisfied if you realize your mistakes when you make them, and I think you do. You won’t make me mad until you make the same mistakes the second time—or the third. When a player knows he’s wrong there’s hope for him: when he can’t see it, he’s useless. Some of you fellows showed real stuff to-day. You, Jackson, for one. You mixed only one signal, and you kept your team on the jump. And Ridgway held the center nicely. And two or three others of you deserve a good word; Bingham, for instance. There was no one within two yards of him when he got that ball after the blocked kick. Remember, fellows, that every loose ball has ‘Touchdown’ written on it in big red letters! Patch, you’d better let Farrell see that hand. Looks rather like a dislocation from the swelling. We’ll try to get started at two to-morrow, fellows, so that we can see some of the game. I want every one of you to watch the First Team players carefully every chance you get. Keep your eye on the men you’ll play against and see where they’re weak. And try to guess the plays before they start. Watch the backs and see what you can learn from the way they stand. Some players will give away the play time and again if you know the language of signs!”
Clif wasn’t nearly as excited over his father’s visit on the morrow as he had expected to be. Of course he was awfully glad he was coming, and he wanted to see him a whole lot and there were loads of things he had saved up to tell him, but he went to sleep that Friday night as soon as his head touched the pillow and awoke the next morning to only the mildest thrill. Mr. Bingham rolled up the drive in the blue car about one o’clock, and Clif, who had hurried through his dinner, was awaiting him at the steps. Mr. Bingham said “Hello, son,” very casually, and Clif grinned, and said “Hello, dad” in much the same tone. But they shook hands very hard and, after the car had been parked at the end of the drive, they made their way to Number 17 with the older man’s arm about the boy’s shoulder. Clif was a little bit conscious of that arm as they passed the recreation room and Office, but he carried off the situation gracefully. If any of the fellows they met felt any inclination toward ridicule Clif’s sharp eyes failed to detect the fact. Generally what he read on their passing countenances was admiration for that well-built, handsome, smiling father of his, and Clif forgot his momentary embarrassment and was proud and pleased.
Oddly enough—or so it seemed to Clif—his father and Walter Treat took to each other instantly, and Clif was a trifle annoyed to discover that Walter’s acceptance of his father seemed more important to him than his father’s approval of Walter! Just as though, he reflected later as he hurried away to the field, it mattered a bit what Walter thought! But he was glad that his roommate had offered to look after the visitor during practice. They didn’t meet again until the Scrub Team, released after an hour’s strenuous work, invaded the grand stand to witness the last half of the contest with Highland School. Walter had somehow managed to occupy the better part of two seats and Clif squeezed himself down beside his father. The Dark Blue had scored a field-goal in the second period, but had not been able to cross the enemy’s goal-line. Highland, playing a far better defensive than offensive game, had failed to score. In the third quarter Fargo and Jenkins between them took the ball to the enemy’s eleven yards from where a forward-pass grounded, and from where, on fourth down, Fargo’s end run was stopped on the eight yards. It was not until late in the last period that Wyndham got her second score. Then, after a long run by Whitemill had brought the battle to Highland’s thirty-yard line, Fargo dashed past tackle for eight, threw across center to Archer for nine more, and then took the ball on the thirteen yards and, with the other backs faking a tandem on the right of center, tore through on the left, shook off three tackles and crossed the goal-line standing up!
Stoddard was hurried in the try-for-point, but the ball shot off to the right, and Wyndham had to be satisfied with nine points as her share of the afternoon’s diversion. Highland had nothing left to offer in the way of attack, and the rest of the final period passed with the ball see-sawing back and forth about the center of the field, Coach Otis sending in substitutes lavishly, and the stand gradually emptying.
There was just time to ride into the village with dad and see him safely settled at the Inn before six o’clock. Then Clif hurried back to supper, secured permission to spend the evening outside, and, feeling a wee bit important, strode down the drive at seven, dressed in his best. Mr. Bingham had discovered a billiard table at the Inn, and was knocking the balls around when Clif found him. “Get your cue, son,” he said. “You’ll find one there with a tip if you look hard. I haven’t whaled you for a long time!”
Clif, who didn’t care much for billiards, consented to humor the other, but he had no idea of spending the evening in such unexciting fashion, and when eight o’clock arrived he hauled an unenthusiastic parent across the street to Freeburg’s one palace of amusement, the Coliseum. The Coliseum was about the size of the library back home in Providence, but it was clean and it offered good, if not recent, pictures. Mr. Bingham professed to be greatly awed by the red, white and blue splendor of the exterior and embarrassed Clif somewhat by insisting on viewing the gaudy and startling pictures in the small lobby painstakingly before purchasing tickets from the interested young lady who chewed her gum so rhythmically inside the glass cage. Aware of the curious stares of theater-going Freeburg, Clif tugged at his father’s arm.
“Oh, come on, dad!” he begged.
But Mr. Bingham was not to be hurried. “I want to be sure,” he declared sedately, “that everything is quite proper, Clif. You know there’s a good deal being said these days about the influence of moving pictures on the young, and I’d very much dislike to have you tell me in later years that you traced your downfall to the night I took you to see—now what the dickens—ah, here it is—to see ‘Outlawed by Honor’! To me, Clif, this man, Johnny Rick, looks rather a desperate character. Isn’t he killing the gentleman with the drooping, black mustache in that picture?”
“Aw, dad!” whispered Clif.
“All right, but I’ll ask for seats well away from the stage, son. Pistol shooting always makes me jump.”