“Maybe he’s right,” replied Grover, reflectively and more cheerfully. “After all, if we win that game——”
“If we do!” said Thad Brimmer. “But how are we going to if we can’t beat these smaller teams? Bet you anything you like that the Varsity would fall dead if it won a game!”
“That’s all right,” Fudge spoke up, “but you’ll all be talking out of the other side of your mouth pretty soon. Dick knows just what he’s doing, and don’t you forget it!” And Fudge, looking unusually belligerent by reason of his inflamed nose, faced them indignantly. “What if we do get beaten by Corwin and Logan and all those little fellows? What we’re after is to smear Springdale, and we’ll do it, too, if we’ll leave Dick Lovering alone and not kick him in the shins every time we get a chance! You make me weary, you gang of grouches!”
Fudge was a hero just now and his words were hearkened to with respect. An uncertain murmur of approval followed, and some laughter, and Grover said: “I guess that’s so, fellows. Let’s leave Lovering alone. Anyway, I’m going home. Who’s coming along?”
And so, although the Scrub triumphed that day, the Varsity trailed home with a third defeat pinned to it, and the school was at first incredulous, then disgusted and, finally, resentful. Explanations and excuses didn’t satisfy. A few fellows who had journeyed to Corwin and witnessed the game declared that hard luck and not poor work had been to blame for the defeat; that on merit Clearfield should have conquered by at least one score. The school at large listened but was unconvinced. “Beaten again!” it said. “Three games lost out of five played! What sort of a team have we got, anyway? What’s Dick Lovering think he’s doing? Playing ‘give-away’?”
There had been extenuating circumstances, however, whether the fellows were willing to believe it or not. Clearfield had distinctly outplayed her opponent in three of the four periods, had gained more ground by rushing, had punted farther and had shown better generalship. In short, she had fairly deserved to win. But there is no denying that success is what counts, and she had not succeeded.
She had fought her way half the length of the field for a clean, well-earned touchdown in the second period and had kicked the goal. She had again rushed nearly sixty yards in the third quarter, and, being held for three downs, had sent a field-goal over for three more points. She had secured the ball two minutes later near the Corwin goal and almost scored again, a fumbled ball which every fellow on the eleven declared had been recovered by Tupper, being awarded to Corwin on the latter’s four yards. And, in the final period, when, with the score 12 to 10 against her, she had twice attempted goals from the field, either of which would have given her a victory, Morris Brent had failed dismally to make good. Not once, declared Lanny resentfully, had the luck broken for Clearfield. All during the contest Fortune had glaringly befriended the adversary. Even Corwin’s first touchdown could not be justly said to have been deserved, for the ball had been Clearfield’s on her twelve yards, succeeding a punt by the opponent, and, after off-side penalties had twice been imposed on Clearfield when Corwin had equally offended, a blocked-kick had been downed by Corwin behind High School’s line. But all this failed to impress the supporters of the team and by Monday feeling against Dick, or, perhaps, against what the school termed his system, was running high. One heard criticism everywhere, sometimes mildly sarcastic, more often angry and bitter. Some wag evolved a conundrum that circulated through school: “What’s the matter with the football team?” “Too many Beatons!” Unfortunately for the perfect success of the conundrum, the question elicited so many explanations and theories that the answer, when it arrived, fell rather flat.
Just who started the agitation for a mass-meeting to protest against the conduct of football affairs never transpired. But the project met with instant acclaim and a notice suddenly appeared on the bulletin-board in the school corridor Monday noon. The meeting was to be held at eight o’clock Tuesday evening, announced the notice, in the assembly hall, and all students were requested to attend. The signature, “Committee of Twelve,” produced much speculation, but no one could or would throw light on the identity of the twelve. Dick, attracted to the bulletin-board by the group in front of it, read the announcement on his way out of the building in the afternoon. The group faded away as he pushed forward, although several of its component parts halted at a distance to observe the effect on the coach. They had their labor for their pains, for Dick showed neither by attitude nor expression that the notice conveyed anything to him. He passed out with his usual half-smiling gravity, nodding to those he passed, and it was not until he was climbing into his blue runabout that the half-smile faded from his face and his expression became thoroughly serious.
At the field Lanny broached the subject laughingly. “Heard about the indignation meeting, Dick?” he asked at the dressing-room door. Dick nodded. “A lot of sore-heads,” Lanny grumbled. “I’ve a good mind to take a bunch of the fellows and bust up the meeting!”
“Better let them alone,” counseled Dick. “I don’t much blame them for getting peeved. Still, if you’re going—and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t—I’ll run around and get you about half-past seven.”