The Girl and the Game and Other College Stories

Front matter

"Ann," I said, "I am awkward and overgrown."

Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons

Published May, 1908

The Girl and the Game

THE GIRL AND THE GAME

THE GIRL AND THE GAME

The rest of the team are down in the banquet-room. The dinner is over, and they are singing now; I can hear them away up here, and I am all alone in a hotel bedroom, stretched out on a sofa, away from everybody, and that is where I ought to be. My right foot is in a bandage, and I'm glad of it. Sometimes it throbs like the dickens. Let it throb.

It was near the beginning of the second half, while the score was still 0 to 0, that this play happened—not the other play (I'll tell you about that later), but the one that really caused the other. The score was still nothing to nothing, and we were still sticking to the kicking game. And they were trying mass-on-tackle and guards-back plays, and the ball still staid in the middle of the field, and all of you thousands of peo were staring at us, I suppose, though we didn't know nor care about that. Then this play was made.

They had the ball. "Twenty-nine—seventeen—forty-five," yelled their captain. Now something inside of me said that that signal meant a kick. "Here's where I block it," I said to myself, gritting my teeth; and the instant the ball was put in play—bang—I went through my man, yelling as I did so to the rest of the team, "It's a kick, fellows!"

He is a lighter guard than I, and I went at him with all my might; but, great Scott! I didn't expect him to fall back that way; but he didn't fall, he jumped back, just as I came at him, and pulled me with him, and I was the one that did the falling. I had misunderstood the signal. Instead of a kick, it was— You know what happened. It was a hole big enough to drive one of the yelling four-in-hands through! But it wasn't made by their system; it was my foolishness. At any rate, straight through the opening shot their interference in beautiful compact form, while I was sprawled out on the grass like a wooden man, and by the time I was on my feet again, they had got past our entire line (my yelling "kick" had helped the cause), and there I saw the man with the ball scudding diagonally across the field with only two of our backs between him and the line—well, I needn't tell you how they each missed him; nor how the field looked when the subs came running up the side fines shrieking, "Touch-down!—a touch-down!" waving blankets and sweaters in the air. (O Lord!)

I saw and heard and felt all this, and it was my fault, and I knew it; and up there some place in the crowded grand stand, sitting in the same section with some of you, she saw it all, too, and she understands football better than you do. And she knew it was all my fault! And I knew she knew it. So I turned my back on the grand stand and kicked myself, and swore I would redeem that mistake.

Jack, the trainer, is right—football men have no business thinking about girls; it makes them worry, and then they get off condition. I went into the game in good enough condition, but I knew she was there, and was looking critically at me, and I knew that she wasn't surprised to see me make a fool mistake. I remembered what she had said to me in the morning. "Oh," she said, "so you haven't got over your big head yet, have you? You will this afternoon." It was only this morning she said that: It seems years ago. It was right here in this very hotel, and I only grinned like a big awkward fool, and tried to be nice to her aunt to show I didn't care. Then little Howland came in. He was the one I wanted to spank all last summer. He came in with some nice clothes, and a big bunch of flowers in his hand. They were his college flowers. So then I guessed why she hadn't put on the ones I had sent up to her room. I went away without saying good-by. Sort of an ass, wasn't I? But I sneaked down stairs to the team and swore that I'd put up such a game that I'd make her proud to be my friend—that I'd make 'em all cheer for me, and get wild over me, and carry me off the field on their shoulders, while nobody stopped to look at little Rowland with his nice clothes and his New York manner, who would be sitting beside her—so close beside her—on the grand stand.

"Ten minutes more!" shouted the time-keeper.

You'll remember this play, I know—when the ball was on their thirty-yard line and they dropped back for a kick? You remember we had worked the ball steadily up the field from our twenty-yard line chiefly by that series of tandem-mass plays. Somehow Cap was sending them all through on my side. But we were moving together in great shape, and we were desperate. Great Scott! how we were smashing their line, and how those fellows tried to use up time! I'm only a big ungainly guard. We fellows don't make any of the brilliant dashes that you people yell over. There's nothing romantic about our job; we just get down close to the ground and work and sweat. It isn't much to my credit that it was on my side that the ball was gradually lurching forward toward their goal, yard by yard, for I thing I was sort of drunk. I didn't know anything except to tear holes in their line, and I felt that nothing could stop me.

Anyhow, they couldn't, I noticed. So they began banking several men there opposite me. Did you notice that? Then, you know, Cap tried the other side, and then—we lost the ball on downs! For Heaven's sake! what made us do that? Now came the play that I started to tell you about.

It was their ball on their thirty-yard line, first down. I was nearly crazy at our losing the ball, and we had only a few minutes' play left. And just here came my chance.

Their captain gave the signal, and their full-back dropped back as if for a kick; and "Look out for a fake kick!" suddenly called Shorty, our quarter, to all of us.

Now though there wasn't time to say so, I felt sure they weren't going to try any fake kicks on the thirty-yard line, with their score six to our nothing; so, with a sort of wild yell

On the side lines.

bang!—I tore my way through the line (they didn't even seem to try to stop me), and—sure enough I was right this time—there was their quarter socking back the ball. I heard him grunt. Boyle tried to block me; I brushed him over. The full-back was now catching the ball. He drew back his foot to kick; high up in the air I jumped in front of him. I heard a double "thump, thump!" I felt the ball bounce off my chest; saw it bounding and rolling innocently off to the right, ten yards away, all alone with nobody between it and the good goal-posts. I swerved toward it—on the next bound I would scoop it up; I thought of Ann; it bounded crooked. (Why?) I grabbed at it, juggled it, dropped it, dropped on it. Then they began dropping on me, and for the first time that day I heard the roaring of the many thousands around the field. My chance was over!

When the pyramid untangled itself and got off, I did not get up, you'll remember. That was because a tendon in my right ankle was smashed. If it had only been a sprained ankle, as these evening papers say, why— At any rate, I was carried off the field. I am a Senior. There are no more games in my college course. That was the ending of my football career. I blubbered.

The rest of the minutes were over after a while.… Well, anyway, they didn't score again.

After it was all over, and the coaches began driving out, with the horns blowing and the flags waving and the thousands cheering, those of our team that could, walked over to the dressing-room, while past us rushed a mob of subs and coachers from the other college, carrying on their shoulders the other team, who looked happy—oh, but they looked happy!

I was carried off the field, too, but not on anybody's shoulders. A couple of rubbers carried me between them. I didn't look over toward the grand stand. I didn't care to.… Oh, well, it's all in a lifetime!

You probably don't know what it was like in the dressing-room after the game. We all got rubbed down for the last time. Nobody said much except one of the coachers. Most of us smoked. Shorty stood on a stool, naked, getting rubbed down, and puffing on his first cigarette since August. A couple of tears dropped down from his cheeks on to the wrist of the rubber. Maybe you think it's funny, but we didn't. It was all so different from the way we thought we were going to break training.

"Cap, we'll do 'em next year," said the head coach.

Cap only sniffled, and— But never mind all this. It's all over now, and the fellows downstairs are cheering themselves up with songs and things, and cursing me between times, I suppose. And I'm all alone in my room, with my right ankle bound up, and sometimes it throbs like the dickens, and I'm glad of it.

Jack, the trainer, was with me for a while, but he went down to the dinner again. He said I could come, but I wouldn't. I deserve to be left alone. I lost the game for the col , and I'm a big awkward kid, and— But I haven't been all alone all the time! Did you think I had? Listen.

I think I was groaning to myself. I didn't mind the pain much, but it feels better to make a noise. I'll bet you do, too, when you are alone. At any rate, the door was open, and I heard some one say (it's a smooth voice), "Does it hurt very much?"

I looked around. There she was, standing in the middle of the hall, just outside my room. I looked away again. "I'm sorry I disturbed you," I said.

She didn't seem to hear that. "Doesn't it hurt awfully?" she said, twitching her shoulders and pinching her left hand with her right; for I had looked round again.

I watched her a minute. Then I said, "I don't want your pity." That was a lie.

"But it does," she said. "I am so sorry." She came nearer. "Oh, don't get up; you mustn't," she said, backing off down the hall. "I was—was just passing by, and— Don't try to get up, please! Oh, Billy, what have you done?"

What I had tried to do was to stand on one foot, but it wouldn't work. I lost my balance, and like a fool stuck out the other foot. I would have gone over if I hadn't caught hold of the table. I hung there, gripping the table, the sweat breaking out on my face, and my hair sticking in my eyes. (I hadn't had my hair cut yet, like some of the fellows.)

"You'd better run along before anybody sees you," I said, trying to lift myself up.

"Billy, don't you move! Do you hear me? Stop it! I say stop it!" And the next thing I knew she had hold of my arm up near the shoulder (I don't believe both hands reach around), and she was saying, "Now, then, slowly; lean on me, Billy; I'm strong—once you told me so yourself. Now am I hurting you? Come down easy. There, now."

"Thank you," I think I said. "Now you had better go."

I suppose she ought really to have gone, oughtn't she? Well, be shocked, all you nice little New York people. Be just as shocked as you please. I don't care. She wasn't thinking about you just now; she had other things to do. She smoothed the pillow, then pulled the sweater down from my chin, so it wouldn't scratch, and dipped her hand into the pitcher of ice-water and touched my forehead with it—twice, I think.

"Now I must go," she said, energetically.

"But, Ann—" I began.

"Good-by," she said. "Would you like some of these?"

"These" meant the flowers she was taking from her belt. I looked at them. They were the flowers I had sent. It was after the game now, and we didn't beat. Just think of that a minute.

"Will you have some of them?" she repeated, "'cause it's sort of dreary in this room, I should think. Are you better?"

But I wasn't looking at the flowers now.

"Ann," I said, "don't go just yet."

"Oh, but I must." She started for the door.

"No, you mustn't," I said.

"I'll bring Aunt Sue to nurse you."

"But I don't want Aunt Sue."

She had reached the door. I groaned. And she came back, running.

"Ah, Billy, is it very bad?" She was at my side.

"Ann," I said, "I am awkward and overgrown2"

She wouldn't look at me, but shook her head.

"And ignorant and have the big head2"

She kept on shaking her head.

"And we would have won to-day if it hadn't been for me, and2"

"Keep still," she said: "if they had all played as well as you, we should have won by ten points."

Ann said that, and she knows football. But I only asked:

"Who do you say would have won?"

"We—you—we." Then she turned her back on me and started for the door.

Again I groaned. She came back again.

"Oh, what is the matter, Billy?" She came nearer to me.

Do you know what I said then?

"Ann," I said, "I love you." Yes, I did, right out that way.

"Oh, Billy, do you still?" She seemed glad about it. "Are you sure you do? Let me go!"

But I didn't just then. She's such a little bit of a thing.

"But, Ann," I called, as she was leaving the room, "wouldn't it have been awful if we had won the—the game to-day?"

Ann turned at the door and looked at me. "You're very unpatriotic," she said. Then she hurried off down the hall.

The rest of the team are singing down in the banquet-room, and I am up here in a dreary hotel room, stretched out on a sofa, with my right foot in a bandage, and I'm glad of it. Sometimes it throbs like the dickens. Let it throb.

The College and the Circus

THE COLLEGE AND THE CIRCUS

THE COLLEGE AND THE CIRCUS

The telegram said: "You are hereby warned finally to keep away from this town with your show."

"Colonel" Charles Baker, proprietor of Cherokee Charlie's Grand Combination Circus and Wild West Wonders, said, "Well, Bill, if those young college dudes are looking for trouble, I reckon we ought to be able to accommodate 'em."

One-Barrel Bill said, "Huh." This meant that he agreed with his boss and anticipated a diversion.

"We did last year," said Cherokee Charlie.

"We did," said One-Barrel.

"I reckon we can again," said Cherokee Charlie.

"I reckon," said One-Barrel solemnly.

So that is the way it was decided.

The telegram was signed by the Mayor and Council of a small town where a large college is situated, and where Cherokee Charlie's Grand Combination of Circus, Stupendous Western Wonders, World-Renowned Rifle-Shots and Mexican Cowboys was billed for the following Wednesday, and where he still intended, it seemed, to keep his date, notwithstanding the advice of more experienced showmen, and in spite of several letters from the University Faculty and town authorities who knew their business.

No circus ought to come to any college town. At some institutions of learning they merely embarrass the tumblers and make the clown feel that he has missed his calling. At this college they were in the habit of doing more than that; it was one of the traditions that no parade should pass in front of the campus gate—without being broken up. Circuses could go through the other streets as much as they wished, but not there. "It disturbs our studies," they said. "Besides, we can do all the parading necessary, thank you."

Last year, when Cherokee Charlie's show came, several students were injured in the accompanying mix-up, one quite seriously, not to speak of the women and children of the town. Worst of all, the procession had proceeded, and the students had discovered that cow-punchers and Mexican lassoers require a different course of study from the ordinary urban bareback rider and flour-faced clown. It was very chagrinning. Perhaps it is not necessary to add that this time they were conscientiously preparing in advance for Cherokee Charlie. They were American undergraduates.

Two days before the circus was due another special meeting of the Discipline Committee was called.

"If we could only induce the ringleaders to be sensible for a few minutes," the President of the University was saying, smiling sardonically, "it would be the only efficacious means in a crisis of this nature. Who is at the head of the movement?"

"Mr. Stehman, of course," said one of the younger professors. "It was he who in the disturbance last year; it is chiefly for that, you recollect, that he is now on probation."

"He is absolutely fearless, and quite as unscrupulous," said another professor.

The President looked thoughtful. "I was under the impression," he said, "that he was endeavoring to be serious since elected captain of the football team. Now, if we could induce him to exert his influence in the other direction2"

"Nonsense," said the junior professor under his breath. "You could never persuade him, sir," he said aloud. "That particular species never changes."

"Incorrigible," echoed another professor.

Now, if Stehman had heard this he would not have been surprised, but he would have considered it unfair. He had been trying of late to brace up and behave himself; and it was partly because of the scepticism of certain members of the Faculty that he had such a discouraging time of it. They did not know how hard he had been poling—or trying to; certainly his stand in class did not show it. They took for granted that he was still a loafer.

He was, to be sure, in the thick of the present plotting, but that seemed only reasonable from his point of view. He had stirred up the racket last year—this was before he had turned serious—and as a result little Reddy Armstrong was nearly killed by a blow from a Mexican bolo. Reddy was a great friend of Stehman's. Therefore, it was necessary to even matters up with the Mexican, especially since the latter had vowed to shoot Stehman on sight. Wasn't that reasonable? But how were the Faculty to know all that? Even Faculties are not infallible. If this Faculty had been infallible it would not have sent out at just this point an edict in which glared the word "forbid." That is a word which human males of a certain age do not always fancy.

"Forbid us, eh?" their eyes said to each other on the way out from chapel. "Well, well, well; that's a different matter."

With Jack Stehman it stirred the lingering boy within him to the surface; only he thought it was his manhood.

"Say, Reddy," he said, "what do they think this is, anyway—a college or a prep. school?"

Several others looked around; they always did when Captain Stehman spoke.

Reddy Armstrong puckered up his comical face to look like a nine-year-old child—one of his specialties. "Oh, pa-pa," he said, looking up at Stehman, "may I go out? I promise not to get my feet wet." The group smiled at this, and then others tried to be funny, too. "I had intended to go out and shoot with the gun club," said Brown, "but now, of course, I'll have to join in the row."

"I tell you what we'll do," said Stehman with a twinkle in his eye—the boy in him had risen triumphant; "we'll call an indignation meeting of the undergraduate body and see about this."

"Right!" "That's the stuff!" said other voices approvingly. The group had grown into a crowd now, and it scented sport. "Vox populii," pronounced Reddy with grandiloquent gesticulation. "Now, law," interrupted another, shaking his index finger after the manner of a well-known professor, "is the established habit of the community; every one knows what the habit of this community is when it runs across a parade; therefore it's our duty2"

"Come on," said Stehman; "we'll have a lot of horse. Tell everybody you see. If we all agree to turn out and stick together, they can't fire the whole college."

The crowd began to scatter.

"Mr. Stehman—oh, Mr. Stehman; may I speak with you a moment?"

Stehman looked around, stopped smiling, lifted his hat, and hurried over to the walk. It was the President.

"Mr. Stehman, pardon my interrupting you. Mr. Stehman, I'm afraid I'll have to trouble you to help me about this affair. I can't do it alone." The President smiled informally. Stehman looked respectful; his thoughts were "Great Scott!"

"I mean," the President went on, "that you have more power over this body of men than I have," He indicated the several streams going along the walks in various directions, then looked at Stehman again, who smiled, but considered the remark too absurd to answer. The President had a reputation as an after-dinner humorist. "I'm not joking," said the President, looking serious; "I mean you to take me very literally. I mean that they would do for you what they would not for me. I mean that I can forbid their making trouble, but you can keep them from making it."

Stehman had never thought about it in just that way before. He felt rather pleased but very foolish; so he blushed and looked over toward the fellows who were waiting for him. One of them caught his eye and grinned.

"Mr. Stehman, I take it for granted," the President was now saying, "that you do not mind my asking you to exert your influence in the direction in which lie the interests of the University?"

Stehman liked this, but he only said: "Well, sir, thank you very much for the compliment; but I don't believe I have any influence—except, of course, over the team2"

The President snapped his long, scholarly fingers. "This is no time for compliments," he said. "This is no mild college prank ahead of us. Among those coming to this town to-morrow are some of the wildest types our country produces. They will certainly carry arms; they will probably use them. There will be serious trouble—a riot—bloodshed—perhaps death. Think of what that means, Mr. Stehman—bloodshed, perhaps death. Think what it means to the parents of those hurt. Think what it means to all of us—to the fair name of the University for whose honor you and I are both supposed to be working in our different ways." Stehman was looking steadily in the President's eyes now. "I like the way he is talking to me, anyway," he thought. "No threats, no reference to my being on probation—good, straight talk."

"It takes a long time," said the President, "to make the public forget headlines such as those that appeared in the papers last year. Such occurrences do more harm than can be balanced by winning football championships. Don't you think so?"

Stehman was kicking up gravel. "Very likely," he said.

"Mr. Stehman, I won't keep you longer; but remember, this body of men will do just about as you direct them. Which way are you going to direct them?"

Stehman hesitated. He was trying to say something—but saying things was not in his line; so he only scowled.

"Good morning, Mr. Stehman; I was in hopes you would help me; good morning."

The Captain made a gesture as if to speak, but the President had hurried off abruptly, displaying more emotion on his thin, ascetic face than most people thought he was capable of. "Perhaps Professor Saunders was right," he was saying to himself. "I am disappointed, greatly disappointed."

"Well," thought the big football player, watching the President hurry off, his shoulders bent with worry, "I never knew before how white that man was. The Faculty don't talk like that to me, as a rule." He smiled a little at grim recollections of experiences at Faculty meetings. It was his own fault, he knew; he told himself that he had been a great fool. But now that he was trying to control the exuberance of hot, youthful blood, he had often wished they would give him a chance to show that he was something more than "a mere athlete," as little, dried-up Professor Saunders once called him.

And now here it had come, most unexpectedly, and from the President himself, who had talked to him quite in that trustful man-to-man manner that the professors had always used with Nick Norris, the last year's Captain—who, however, was also a high-stand man.

"Why couldn't something of this sort happen before?" he said to himself as he started off to catch up with the other fellows. "It's just my luck! If he had only talked to me like this a couple of weeks ago when the show-bills were first posted; I don't say I could have done much, but I would have kept my mouth shut, anyhow. Or if he had only tackled me five minutes ago it wouldn't have been so bad, but now—the fire's started, and I don't see how I can stop it. Listen to that!" A few loud voices in the distance were already shouting, with evident enthusiasm: "Hel-lo-o! Everybody! Indignation meeting—eight o'clock this evening—in the English room. Everybody come!"

The only thing for Stehman to do now was to get up in the mass meeting and urge obedience to the Faculty's command. It made him flush to think of it. "They wouldn't understand," he said to himself. "They would only know that that Mexican mucker is laying for me—or else they'd think that because I'm on probation I'm afraid—of course they would. They all saw the President talking to me; they could draw their own conclusions. Besides, what would be the use? I couldn't tell them to be good little boys; they wouldn't take me seriously; they would think I was a hypocrite." It was a disquieting thought. "If it would be of any use I would try, but it would do the University no good, and incidentally," he added, thinking of certain ambitions, "it would do me a lot of harm."

"Heads out!" yelled other voices. "Everybody come to the indignation meeting."

II

Everybody did. The place was crowded long before the appointed hour, and they sang and talked and smoked until the meeting was called to order.

A self-appointed committee had prepared resolutions which were read with much mock ceremony and many "whereases" and "wherefores" and " aforesaids." Boiled down to a sentence, it meant: "As the cowboys got the better of us last year, it is the duty of every loyal son of the Alma Mater to pitch in and clean out the cowboys this year, particularly since the Faculty has forbidden it." It was received with great applause.

Then remarks were in order—they meant to have all the fun out of it possible—and the chairman of the committee took out his pipe and said: "Are we going to let muckers come to this place and ride over us and knock people down [A voice: "Well, hardly!"], and be bullied into meek, child-like obedience by the Faculty? [Loud voices: "No! not on your life."] Then I say, pass this resolution." He sat down.

"Beautiful speech, Billy," laughed the man next to him, and pounded him on the back.

Then a modest, hard-working fellow whom few knew, named Horatio Stacy—called Poler Stacy by his classmates—arose and said in a self-conscious manner that he did "not agree with the words of the last speaker nor with the purport of the resolutions." He reminded them of their duty as members of a Christian college, spoke with horror of bloodshed, and advised them to obey the commands of "our honored President."

They did not jokingly interrupt him; they kept coldly quiet. Stacy was a good man, and respected by the more sensible element; but he had no tact. What he said was all right, but the way he said it was all wrong. His speech did more harm than good to his side of the question.

But you needn't think it was easy for this man to talk thus; the tremble in his voice showed how hard it was. Stehman, the big football Captain, looking at Stacy as he sat down, wet with perspiration and shaking all over, said solemnly to himself: "I wish I had as much nerve as that."

Another man jumped up. "It's not so serious as all that," he said, smiling confidently at the crowd, who smiled back. "Our friend here has too much conscience and not enough sense of humor. Besides, we are not infants, to be told we must and we must not. Is this a college or is it only a prep. school? [Stehman, listening, thought to himself, "My very words this morning."] We are here for an education," the speaker went on. ["Right," they shouted—especially the loafers.] "We are here to study, by Heavens!" the speaker went on amid some laughter. "It's absurd. It's against our inalienable rights and privi as citizens of these great and glorious United States. [A voice: "When did you vote last, Jimmie?" He was only nineteen.] That's all right." he said, smiling. "Anyway, let all those who are afraid of the Faculty or of a little bloodshed stay behind the fence or in their rooms!"