Dick Arnold of Raritan college

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

II. Finances and Football . . . .... 9

III. A Two-Hundred-Dollar Idea 25

Chapter I A Decision

D ICK ARNOLD was worried. It was almost time for him to return to college, and the thing which had been bothering him all summer was not yet decided. And, before any decision was to be made Dick knew that he would have his father to reckon with.

Doctor Arnold was one of the best known physicians in Greenwood, a small town in Central Kansas, with a practice large enough to educate his son as he saw fit. The older man was himself a graduate of Raritan College, and it was his one wish and desire that Dick should follow in his footsteps and be captain of the Raritan football team. But he also wished, and demanded, another thing. For three generations the eldest son in the Arnold family had been a physician. It had grown to be something of a tradition, and Doctor Arnold had set his heart upon Dick graduating from college and entering medical school.

The boy had demurred at first. In high school, 1 chemistry had not appealed to him ; he could see no sense in the endless formulas; and invariably, when he attempted an experiment, it resulted differently from what was expected of it. He stained his fingers and ruined his clothes, but all to no avail. As a chemist he was a failure; he was a good football player.

The Doctor, however, maintained that he would do better in college, and the boy, following his advice, entered Raritan as a student in the chemistry course. The results were discouraging, to say the least. At the end of the first year, Dick’s marks were too close to the minimum sixty per cent for any degree of comfort; and at the conclusion of the sophomore term, a note from the registrar advised him that he had failed in quantitative analysis. Doctor Arnold raved and stormed when the report reached him, and vowed that Dick would learn chemistry if it had to be hammered into him. But the boy only smiled, for it was at that time that the germ of a big resolution had entered his mind.

He had always been interested in any work which included writing, and during the summer vacations had done some splendid work as reporter for the Greenwood Record. He was never ' so happy as when sitting at a desk with a typewriter before him; he wrote easily and fluently, and his style gave promise of a future of real worth in the literary field.

His failure in technical subjects at college had 2

A DECISION shown him one thing clearly : He had not a physician *s natural qualifications; he was not fitted for the practice of medicine. And because he could upon occasion think plainly and straight to the point, he knew that he would never achieve success as a doctor. And he knew also that he would be dissatisfied, even discontented. And so, as the summer advanced, it had been more and more impressed upon him that he should go frankly to his father and announce his intention of dropping the study of medicine. But because he knew that the older man would be both hurt and disappointed, he had put aside his decision, and delayed definite action.

A letter from the college stating that the September term would open in two weeks was the one thing which decided him finally. Dick knew that if he hesitated any longer, it would be too late. So, that evening, he bearded the Doctor in his den.

“Dad,” he said, “I’ve decided not to be a physician, after all.”

The older man looked up as if his ears had deceived him.

“What!” he ejaculated. “You’re not going to be a doctor?”

“No, sir.”

They faced each other across the room, father and son in the first clash they had ever had. In the eyes of one was a rather dumbfounded surprise ; in those of the other a stubborn determination.

“Why?” asked the man finally.

“Because I want to be a writer. I don’t like the study of medicine.”

“But you haven’t tried it yet.”

“I know, but I’ve tried chemistry, and it’s the worst job I’ve ever tackled.”

“You’ll get over that; and, anyway, chemistry isn’t all that, you ’ll have to know to be a doctor.”

“I know it isn’t, but I’m not fitted for that kind of life. Whenever I see a cat limping across the street I begin to feel sick, and once when I saw a dog hit by an automobile I almost fainted.”

The Doctor snorted angrily.

“You’ll get over that,” he answered. “We all feel it at first.”

“I won’t get over it, and I can’t be a physician. That’s all there is to it, Dad.”

Dick tried to speak calmly, but his voice shook. His father was a large man; the old type of physician with a gruff manner and heavy voice, and he was accustomed to obedience. For a moment he was taken back by the boy’s words; defiance to his wishes was a new experience to him, and he did not know quite what to make of it. But recovering himself instantly, he slammed his fist down on the desk so that the books and papers jumped up crazily.

“You’ll be a doctor and take the course that I want you to, or you won’t go to college,” he bellowed. “We’ll see whether you’ll disobey me or not.”

A DECISION

* ‘But, Dad,” Dick remonstrated, “don’t yon see that if I don’t like the work I can never make a success of it?”

“That hasn’t anything to do with it. You’ve got to like the work; it’s a tradition of the family. Your grandfather and great-grandfather were doctors before you, and it’s in your blood. You can’t get away from it.”

“But it isn’t in my blood, and I can get away from it.”

The boy’s voice had lost its wavering note and rang out clearly. His heart was beating like a hammer, but he was resolved to win his point at almost any cost. He felt that his whole future was at stake.

For a long two minutes they stood there, father and son looking into the depths of each other’s eyes. Then the older man changed his tactics ; he became sarcastic.

“And what do you think you would like to do?” he asked.

“I want to take the literary course and be a writer. ’ ’

“Where did you get the idea?”

“I’ve had it for a long time; it’s what I’m fitted for.”

The Doctor laughed scornfully.

“That isn’t a man’s work,” he chided. “It’s girlish. ’ ’

‘ ‘ Why is it girlish ? ’ ’

“Because you’re not doing anything; anybody 5 can write things. If yon wanted to be an engineer and achieve something, I might not object. But a writer — pooh!”

He snapped his fingers, and Dick felt the hot blood surge to his face. But he held himself in check, for it was his father he was talking to, his father, whom he had always regarded with the greatest reverence.

“ Shakespeare was a writer,” he answered. “He not only achieved, he created. And his name is more widely known than the greatest engineer in the world.”

For about thirty seconds the older man remained silent, gazing thoughtfully out of the office window. Finally he turned, the hint of appeal in his eyes.

“Boy,” he said, “for eighteen years Fve planned to make a doctor out of you. It’s been the most cherished dream of my life. I’ve built up my own practice, not for myself, but for you. I’ve thought that, when I grew too old to do active work, I could step aside and let you take my place. And the same name could hang on the shingle outside the door.”

It was hard to resist the appeal in his voice; doubly hard because Dick knew how much his father had planned for him. For a moment the boy almost capitulated. He told himself that perhaps he could learn to like chemistry, after all; that perhaps it was his duty to do as his father wished. It occurred to him that possibly he was wrong and that the doctor, who was older and 6

A DECISION more experienced, knew more about it. Maybe be had better give in, after all —

A knock sounded at the door, and, with a gesture of impatience, the physician strode across the room and opened it. A man staggered across the threshold, blood streaming from a cut over his forehead. His hair was matted, his eyes stared wildly.

“Doc,” he muttered thickly, “I’ve had an accident. My head — ”

With a moan, he tumbled in a heap on the floor.

Dick Arnold was sickened at the sight; a lump arose in his throat, his head swam dizzily. Without so much as a look at the poor fellow on the carpet, he almost ran from the room.

It was an hour or more before his father was able to see him again. During that time Dick had gone over the situation thoroughly. He knew in his heart of hearts that he would never make a successful physician; the incident of the injured man had proved that without a doubt. On the other hand, he had shown promise at newspaper work ; he enjoyed writing, and felt that with proper training he could become a successful literary man. So he entered the office for the second time with a stern resolve to gain his point at any cost.

“Dad,” he said, “I wish that I could do as you want me to, but it isn’t in me.”

The doctor had been upset by the events of the past hour, and for the first time he lost complete control of himself.

“You’ll do what I say or I’ll know the reason why,” he thundered. “I won’t have a son of mine disobeying me.”

“I’m not disobeying you, Dad,” the boy remonstrated. ‘ ‘ But don ’t you see that my whole future is in the balance? You haven’t any right to make me into something I’m not fitted for.”

Dick was eighteen years old and fairly capable of knowing his own mind, but the doctor was of the old-fashioned school and believed that a son should follow without question the dictates of his father’s mind. His lips shut in grim determination.

“If you don’t keep on with your chemistry,” he announced, “I won’t give you another cent for your college education.”

At heart Doctor Arnold was the kindest man in the world, but he was possessed of a streak of stubbornness which nothing could shake. Dick knew that he meant what he said. But probably the same streak of stubbornness was in the boy; at any rate, he was determined not to give in.

“All right,” he answered slowly, “then I’ll earn my own expenses.”

The older man nodded briefly, signifying the end of the discussion. With his heart beating a trifle faster than usual, Dick arose and left the room. He had committed himself; there was no backing down. It was up to him to earn enough money to pay his way at college for the next two years.

Chapter II

C OLLEGE was scheduled to open in three weeks, and the task that lay before Dick in that time was to find some work which would give him an average income of ten dollars a week. The task was a big one. At Raritan he was known as a fellow who liked to have a good time and who always had plenty of money. His friends, in most cases, were fairly well-to-do and spent money carelessly, if not recklessly. He belonged to a fraternity and roomed in the fraternity house, where rents were twice as high as they were in the college dormitory. And finally, he did not know a single student who was working his own way, and there was no one to whom he could go for advice.

Raritan College was situated in New Jersey, about midway between New York and Philadelphia. The town of Raritan boasted of thirty thousand inhabitants ; it had two newspapers, a number of factories, and ten restaurants. Dick had read somewhere that students could always secure jobs waiting on tables; but he shrank instinctively from that kind of labor. During his first two 9 years at Raritan, lie had made the acquaintance of a number of the city’s best families and had gained a social prestige which would have been lost had he become a waiter in an all-night lunch room.

For two days he racked his brain, trying to think of some way in which to earn the necessary ten dollars every week. This was for living expenses only, for at the beginning of his freshman year he had been awarded what was known as the “Middle West Scholarship,” which covered tuition and public room fees, and which had been awarded without reference, to academic standing. He had spent much more than ten dollars a week in those carefree times when his father paid the bills, but he estimated that, by practicing economy, he could limit his expenditures to* about forty dollars a month. At any rate, he resolved to make a try at it.

The best possible field was, of course, in newspaper work, so that night Dick wrote a long and eloquent letter to one of the two papers in Raritan, stating that he would like to cover the college for them at either space rates or salary basis. Having started on this line, he decided to develop it; and one evening, when there was nothing else to do, he composed a letter and sent it to six New York papers, two in Newark, and one in another Jersey town. He then sat back and anxiously awaited developments.

About a week later, when he was ready to give up hope and admit defeat, an answer came from 10 the Raritan Times . The editor stated that he had been having trouble in finding a correspondent who could really write news, and that if the applicant could prove himself efficient after the first two weeks, he would be given the position of college reporter at a salary of eight dollars a week. Dick grinned happily ; the problem seemed to have been solved miraculously. But that was not all. A few days later, one New York paper advised him that it would use Raritan news every Sunday at space rates of five dollars a column, and a Newark paper appointed him Raritan correspondent at a space rate of twenty cents an inch.

It seemed too good to be true, and when Dick showed the results of his efforts to his father, the doctor smiled delightedly. They had another long talk which ended by the older man offering to advance any amount of money which might he needed. The hoy, however, smilingly refused the offer; he was resolved that he would get along without aid from home if he had to stay up all night writing news. He figured that his income would be at least twelve dollars a week. But the doctor was dubious.

‘ ‘ You ’ve started off with a big flourish, ’ ’ he said, “and you think that it's all over but the shouting. But you’ll find that it isn’t. You’ve never been accustomed to hard work, and unless you keep at it every minute you’re going to fall behind. You’d better drop the Raritan paper and let me help you out.”

But Dick was obdurate and, maintaining that he could do it easily, outlined a plan whereby he could minimize the labor. He would arise at six o’clock every morning and write the day’s story for the Times. In the evening, he planned to take care of the two out-of-town papers, in a good many cases using carbon copies of the same stoiy.

He had been a member of the varsity football team for two years, and was in line for the captaincy. The doctor, who, as has been said, was an old football player himself, was frankly proud of his son’s accomplishments on the gridiron, and after every game insisted that the result be sent him by telegram. So when Dick received word from the manager to report on the field a week before college opened, the older man helped him pack his trunk and took him down to the station in the runabout. All trace of ill feeling between them had disappeared.

“Good luck to you,” he said, as the train pulled up. “Don’t forget that if you need any money; your old Dad is ready to dig deep into his bank account. ’ ’

His voice was a little more gruff than usual, and the boy had a sneaking suspicion that the older man was rather proud of the fact that he had decided to strike out for himself. But neither of them spoke about it.

The trip to Raritan was rather uneventful. Dick had saved enough money during the summer 12 to pay his fare and all minor expenses, and when he reached the college he still had something like fifty dollars as a nucleus far a bank account.

The campus was practically deserted when he reached town at three -o’clock in the afternoon. He had written to the Registrar in advance, asking that his room- be transferred from the fraternity house to the college dormitory, and the first thing that he did was to find the place that had been assigned to him. It proved to be a double room in the comer of the building. The study windows looked out over the campus, a branch from one of the old elm trees thrust itself against the screen and reminded him of home. From the window he could catch a glimpse of the gymnasium and athletic field; and far across the river could see the steeple in the little town of Cranwood, standing out like a white specter against the blue of the sky. On the way to the gym to dress for football practice, he asked the registrar who his roommate was.

“It’s Ted White,’ ’ the college official answered. “A member of your own class.”

Dick had known Ted only slightly during the first two years. He remembered him as a big fellow, with rather shabby clothes and a slouchy walk. Some one had mentioned once that White was working his way through college, fixing furnaces in the winter and mowing grass in the summer. It seemed rather lucky to Dick that he should be thrown in with him, for he could prob- 13 ably give a lot of advice about economizing, something Dick had never been able to do.

When he reached the gymnasium, the majority of the squad were already on the field, so he secured some togs from an assistant manager and dressed hurriedly. A few minutes later he was standing on the running track surrounding the gridiron. It was great to be out in togs again, great to feel the spring of the ground beneath leather cleats. At the far end of the field about twenty players were gathered, listening to some one Dick could not see. It was a perfect afternoon in late summer, almost too mild for football, but there was something about the air which made him feel as if he could jump into the midst of a hard scrimmage at a moment’s notice.

Raritan Field that day was one of the most beautiful spots the boy had ever seen. It lay on a bluff overlooking the river. Across the silver band of water rose a series of low hills; an old farmhouse, red against the green background, was overshadowed by monstrous white barns. Two miles away, the steeple which had caught his eye from the study window shone glistening in the sunshine. There was something about that field which always made Dick feel as if the world was a good place to live in.

Breathing deeply, he trotted around the track to where the squad was holding converse. Captain Jim Way, seeing him first, whooped joyfully and came running toward him. The firm clasp of the 14 captain's Land was a welcome well worth a trip halfway across the continent.

“How are you, Dick, old chap?” he demanded, his blue eyes shining. ‘ ‘ You look fine as a fiddle. ' 9

“I am, Jimmy. I've been working all summer. 9 9

The others crowded around just then, and for a few minutes Dick was busy shaking hands with the fellows he had not seen for over three months. He had known most of the members of the squad for two years ; had fought with them in the football field, dressed with them in the gym, shared their doubts and their hopes through two unforgettable seasons. He smiled happily. It was great to be back once more.

Suddenly another presence made itself felt. Looking up, Dick beheld, standing a little to one side, the largest man he had ever seen.

“•Who is the new man?” he queried.

Jim Way drew him to one side.

“Haven't you heard about Coach Strong?” he asked.

“No, what about him?”

“He's accepted another job and can't coach usi this year. So we've secured the services of Arthur Handford. He's the best football coach in the country, and the only reason we've gotten him is because he 's a great friend of one of our alumni. He promises to make us a championship team in two months. ' '

Dick looked interestedly at the newcomer.

What lie saw was a man standing six feet four in his football shoes. His eyes were steel gray, his jaw protruded aggressively. His massive arms swung listlessly at his side, but there was something about him which hinted at latent energy. As Dick looked, he turned toward the squad.

“Come on, men,” he bellowed. “Kick the ball around. ’ ’

His voice snapped out like the crack of the whip. Instinctively the squad jumped to obey his command. There was something about him which forbade dalliance. The greatest coach in the world had taken Raritan under his wing. It promised to be a big season.

The practice that afternoon was something Dick Arnold never forgot. For two long hours Coach Handford pounded the rudiments of football into the team. It was too early for heavy work; the players were not in the best of condition and many of them were wishing with all their hearts that they had begun training a few weeks ahead of time.

But the coach was merciless. Time and again the players raced down the field under soaring punts; time and again they made long dashes to catch the forward passes which Jim Way hurled skillfully just within their reach. It was easy to see why Handford was considered the best football coach in the country. There was something compelling about him; tired as the men were, not one of them considered letting down in his work 16 for an instant. The coach’s voice boomed across the field, and the team hastened to obey his commands.

It was all very different from the last two years, when Raritan, as a small college, had played small college football. There were generally about thirty candidates for the team; and as the season wore away it was customary for a number of those who could not make the varsity to drop out. Sometimes it was hard to find eleven men for the first team to scrimmage against. But it looked now as though things would be different. Handford was accustomed to big college football, and it was easily seen that he expected a big college brand of the game from his new proteges.

After they had tried kicking, forward passing, and falling on the -ball, Coach Handford called them together.

“No football team can win the majority of its games,” he said, “until every player on that team knows the first principles of football. So I am going to start with you boys from the ground up. I’m going to make believe that you haven’t played football before, and I’m going to show you how it should be played. ’ ’

He began with the linemen and put them through the mi]l for twenty solid minutes. He showed them how to charge, how to block a runner, how to use their hands on the offense, and how to “keep their legs under them.” It was an education just to watch him. He was known 17 throughout the country as a man who invented football epigrams. All his gridiron teachings were based on two sentences, and he drummed them into the players’ minds unceasingly.

“On the defense,” he announced, “we have but one law. "We say to the opposing runner; * this far shalt thou go , hut no farther .’ We do not let him pass the imaginary line we have drawn in front of us. We guard that line as we would our lives, and when we can continue to hold the other man away from that line, we are great football players. ”

His voice carried the courage of conviction. The inspiration of his words worked themselves into Dick’s blood, and almost unconsciously the boy found himself repeating the sentence : “This far shalt thou go, but no farther. ’ ’

“And we also have a rule on the offense,” the coach continued. “Remember it every minute you are in a game. It reads like this: ( Three yards I must have, come what may! I will not he denied /’ ”

“I will not be denied!” The words boomed across the field; there was something about them w T hich thrilled Dick Arnold to the very core. He glanced at the other members of the team. They were listening eagerly, thrilled as he was by the teachings of this big man who knew more football than any one they had ever come in contact with. Under the spell of his presence, they forgot everything except the fact that they must play the game 18 with every ounce of strength they possessed ; that they must never quit, but fight always for the honor of the college.

“I want you all to remember these things I am saying,’ ’ the coach warned them. “ Those two sentences are the sum and substance of football success. And let me tell you,” he added grimly, “that they go to make success in the game of life as well as in the smaller game we are playing now . 9 ’

After a while, he let the linemen go and turned his attention to the ends. On the right side of the line, Dick waited eagerly. The coach showed him how to tackle the runner without hurting himself, how to keep an opposing halfback from running around him, how to catch a forward pass. The boy listened silently, and tried to do as he was told; but Art Johnson, at left end, was inclined to argue. The new coach seemed to have lots of fault to find with him.

“You don’t know the first rudiments of your position,” he said. “An end does not rush wildly into every play; he waits and finds out where the ball is going.”

Art took the criticism as a personal affront and answered that he had played varsity football for two years and that no long runs had ever been made through him. Coach Handford smiled.

“I’m glad to know that I have discovered a perfect man at last,” he said ironically. “I’ve been trying to find one all my life. ’ ’

A slight tinge of red crept over Art’s face.

“Pm not perfect,” lie answered slowly. “But I’m a varsity end, and for the last two years I was considered the surest tackier on the team.”

The coach walked over to where Art was standing and placed a calloused hand on his shoulder. Then he turned to the team.

“I want all you boys to listen to this,” he announced, “because it’s important. It doesn’t make any difference to me what any of you were last year, or the year before. I’m a new man at Raritan and I watch every player with a stranger’s eye. There is just one thing I want you all to know. On this football field, we judge a man’s to-morrow by his to-day , but never his to-day by his yesterday .”

It was one of the most earnest speeches Dick had ever heard, and it made a deep impression on the squad. The players realized suddenly that not a single man of them was sure of his position. They would be judged on what they did to-day, not one on what they had done last year. In other words, the new coach was playing no favorites ; all of them stood even, and it was up to each man to do his level best. Last year’s scrub player had just as much chance as the varsity man.

They left the field that afternoon with this thought uppermost in their minds. It was the beginning of a new era of football at Raritan; the influence of the new coach was already making itself felt.

Handford sat at the head of the training table at supper. His personality off the field was just as striking as when he wore a football suit, but he seemed more like one of the team after he had dropped the role of mentor. He himself had been a great football player at Yale, and he told the squad stories of the big games with Harvard and Princeton until it was nine o’clock before they knew it. Then they all adjourned to the steps of Willetts Hall. It was a perfect night; innumerable stars shone like golden dots in the dark vault of the skies. The campus was deserted, but a soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and gave a hint of the approach of real football weather. After a while, they began singing, and when Jim Way started up “Dear Old College,” they all rose to their feet and remained standing until the last verse was concluded.