“I don’t expect to get on the First—this year. I want to make the Scrub Team. They say you get a lot of fun on the Scrub. Experience, too. They can’t say I’m too light, anyway!”
“No, you’re not that,” agreed Dick as, having stopped the engine, he secured his crutches, placed the tips on the ground and swung himself from the car in the wake of Fudge. “Hope you have luck, anyway.”
Once past the gate Fudge, with a startled “They’ve begun, Dick!” scurried off, leaving Dick to make his way toward where a small group of fellows were standing along the side line watching the first practice of the season. Returning greetings, Dick paused and looked around him. The gridiron had been freshly marked out and the creamy-white lines shone brilliantly in the afternoon sunlight against the green turf. Down near the west goal the First Squad was jogging about in signal practice in charge of Chester Cottrell, last year’s quarter. Dick noted that, as composed this afternoon, it was made up entirely of last year’s first and second string players; Grover, Horsford, Cable, Haley, Kent, Wayland, Toll, McCoy, Hansard, Cottrell and Felker. Two of the regulars were absent from the squad; Lanny White himself, whom Dick soon espied working with the green candidates, and Morris Brent, who last year had played fullback in one or two of the principal games and was this Fall the logical candidate for the place. Doubtless, though, Dick reflected, Lanny was keeping Morris out of the game on account of his injured leg. Morris’s folks had strongly objected to the boy’s taking part in football this season and had appealed to the doctor to support them. The latter, however, to everyone’s surprise, especially Morris’s, had declared that he didn’t believe kicking a football around would hurt that leg. It was evident, though, that Lanny wasn’t going to take chances, for Dick saw Morris, sweatered, hands in pockets, speedily following in the wake of the Third Squad with Lanny. The Scrubs were having practice by themselves at the east end of the gridiron, and Dick wondered who was in charge. With the idea of finding out, he made his way leisurely along the side line and, after traversing a few yards, was overtaken by George Cotner, the manager, a squarely built and stocky youth of eighteen with an alert countenance.
“Hello, Dick,” greeted Cotner. “Come out to see the Orphans play?”
“Is that what you call them?” asked Dick.
“That or the Coachless Wonders,” was the smiling response. “Isn’t it the dickens about Farrell? Mean trick to play on us, I say.”
“Oh, I guess he didn’t mean to play any trick. Guess he’d much rather have stayed here in Clearfield and coached the team than have been called home to see his sick mother.”
Cotner shrugged his shoulders. “If he was called home,” he said.
“Well, wasn’t he? That’s what I heard. What do you mean?”
“I mean that Joe wasn’t getting much money here, as you probably know, Dick, and he’s a pretty good coach. His contract expired this Fall and it hadn’t been renewed. The Athletic Committee was ready to renew it, but Joe didn’t show up. Then came that letter saying his mother was ill in Ireland and he was going home to visit her. It just occurred to me that maybe his mother was another school somewhere and that he was after more money.”