In spite of the fun Mr. Bingham poked at the entertainment provided by the Coliseum that evening, it would have been apparent to any one that he got more pleasure from it than the more blasé Clif. He became visibly excited when, in the fourth reel, the redoubtable hero, the aforementioned Mr. Rick, dashed into the deserted cabin, seized the heroine in his elastic-banded arms, with not even a glance at the sizzling fuse that led to the enormous can of dynamite, dashed out again and spurred his faithful horse to safety. Of course Clif knew perfectly well that the cabin wouldn’t blow up until the hero was well out of the way, but apparently the idea hadn’t occurred to his father, for the latter relapsed, exhausted by emotion, against Clif’s shoulder. Fathers are sometimes very trying.
On Sunday there was a banquet for four at the Inn. Clif had all along intended to invite Tom to dinner on this occasion, but the inclusion of Walter in the party had been Mr. Bingham’s idea. Not that Clif really minded. It merely hadn’t and wouldn’t have occurred to him. Walter was rather an addition, as it turned out, for “the beggar could talk about anything,” as Tom put it, and Tom didn’t care a great deal who talked so long as he was able to devote himself undisturbedly to the chief matter in hand, which on this occasion was putting away a very considerable amount of broiled chicken and appropriate trimmings. Walter and Mr. Bingham became involved in an earnest, though friendly, argument over the coffee, as to the relative values of classical and practical educations, a discussion that rather bored the others. After the question had been settled to the satisfaction of both contenders, following the yielding of much ground by each, the car was brought forth from a nearby garage, and, with Clif at the wheel and Tom beside him, they set forth to see as much of the world as was practicable in the two hours left at Mr. Bingham’s disposal.
They got back to West Hall at a quarter past four and Mr. Bingham said good-by and swung the car toward Providence. Saying good-by this time hadn’t been hard at all, Clif thought as he followed Walter and Tom into the Hall. He felt a little guilty about it.
On Monday the Scrub had an easy session when it went over to the enemy’s lair, for many of the latter, all those who had taken any considerable part in the Highland game, had been excused. The Scrub showed up better, under these circumstances, and scored twice to the First Team’s once. Although the honor of making the first score of the season fell to Sim Jackson when he booted an easy field-goal, to Thomas Ackerman Kemble was credited the first crossing of the enemy’s goal-line. That historic event occurred in the last period when, held for three downs by a horde of substitutes writhing under “G.G.’s” caustic comments, Sim slipped the pigskin to Tom on a delayed pass, and Tom flashed around the right and wormed through in some remarkable way, reaching the goal-line without much opposition until a frantic back tackled and accompanied him across the last two yards. Being unable to shake off the enemy, Tom just took him along.
Although the Scrub’s victory had been secured from a much weakened First, it held some glory, and the Scrub made the most of it. It gave them confidence, and the next afternoon, when the first-string men were back on the job, Mr. Babcock’s disciples showed quite a nice brand of football. Of course the First had its way in the end, but it had to fight for it, and fight hard. Ike Patch started at left end for the Scrub, but Clif displaced him after five minutes, and was allowed to play through. Ever since Clif had chased down that loose ball on Friday “Cocky” had seemed to hold him in deep respect, and Tom, not at all certain of his own position, declared that Clif had “vamped” the coach, and was settled for the season. Clif began to believe it himself by Wednesday.
On that afternoon the audience, looking on from a windswept stand and shivering under sweaters, saw a very pretty practice game. The Scrubs romped in from the suburbs armed with three brand-new plays meticulously designed by Mr. Babcock to take advantage of the enemy’s weaknesses. The principal weakness just then was the lack of a good defense against forward-passes, and although the Scrub had yet to show any startling proficiency in passing, “Cocky” had provided two plays that might benefit his team. These plays, together with a third that didn’t rely on tossing the ball into the teeth of an October gale for success, had been hastily and not too thoroughly taught that afternoon, and Sim Jackson’s brain was still roiled by his attempt to add this fresh matter to all the other stored there. The Scrub Team to-day was on its toes from the start. Somehow it had become inbued with the notion that it was good! And when a team gets that idea in its head, and is willing to work like the dickens to prove that it is correct, why, that team is hard to stop.
To-day was no sort of day to slow up play for instruction, and so Mr. Otis swallowed many remarks that almost choked him and let the battle surge. And it surely surged. The very appearance of the Scrub players had been an affront, with their cocksure swaggering as they took the field, and now, with the war on, their behavior was preposterously insulting. The poor weaklings, culls from the First Team orchard, so to speak, acted as if they thought themselves real timber! It was well-nigh sickening to First Team sensibilities, and so the First Team set itself to inflict disciplinary punishment. For a while it seemed that the Scrub was due to emerge from the engagement with a chastened spirit, but that was only for a while, and a brief while at that. Having allowed the First to reach the fourteen yards, though far from willingly, the Scrub dug its cleats, and gave an excellent imitation of a stone wall. Against that wall Quarterback Stoddard dashed Fargo and Jensen and Fargo again, and when the three attempts had been made the wall was scarcely dented. The First was plainly puzzled; puzzled and angry too. But that any Scrub—at least any Scrub so recently born—could actually hold the first for four downs was unthinkable, and so, scorning to be satisfied with the three points a field-goal would have given, Stoddard unwisely pulled Captain Lothrop out of the line and instructed him, by means of signals, to bust through and put the ball down not short of the four yards. Unfortunately, Stoddard lost track of the fact that Dave’s place at left guard was being handed over to Sproule, playing half instead of Whitemill. When the ball was snapped, Clem Henning drew Sproule forward on his nose, strode over him and stopped Captain Dave neatly and expeditiously for a gain of some eighteen inches. Dazed, First yielded the pigskin.
Any one knows that the only thing to do when the ball comes into your possession close to your goal is to punt it away from there. So Sim did something else! He called “Kemble back!” the ball was shot to Tom from center, and Tom took three steps back and to his left, and swept the pigskin down the field with an overhand spiral throw. Clif had let the opposing end by outside, evaded a back and was clear. Not far behind him ran Sim. Toward them both came the ball. Sim turned, looked and panted: “Take it!” Clif whirled, stood and held his hands out. Never before in a contest had he ever attempted a long catch of a forward-pass, and he wished devoutly that the ball had gone to Sim. Without seeing he knew that the whole field of players was converging on him. Then the ball struck his hands, and by some miracle, as it seemed to him, stuck! Turning quickly, he had a blurred vision of Sim crashing into an opponent. The background of the brief picture was a confusion of moving bodies, looming larger with each instant.
Then he dug out, the ball tucked firmly between arm and body, his right hand outstretched for action. He could run, could Clif, and he ran now, but there was the First Team quarter bearing diagonally across to intercept him, and the fleet Jensen was close behind. It seemed to Clif that he had taken but a dozen strides when Jensen shot for him, and, despite his plunge to the right, caught him, and brought him crashing down, and yet when he was pulled, breathless, to his feet a moment later, there was the fifty-yard line behind the ball! Somehow he had successfully caught a thirty-yard pass, and carried it seventeen yards further! The Scrub assailed him as one man, and did him painful honor!
The First was disgruntled, and Mr. Otis’s disgusted observations did little to soothe it. Tom, smiting Clif mightily between his shoulders and depriving him momentarily of what little breath he had left after being thumped to earth by Stoddard, and sat on by Jensen, grinned expansively and shouted “Good stuff, old son! That’s the way to treat ’em!”