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Secret Play

<h2>CHAPTER VII CLEARFIELD MEETS DEFEAT</h2> Locust Valley High School descended on Clearfield the following Saturday, as Chester Cottrell phrased it, “loaded for b’ar!” She came with some two dozen capable-looking red-stockinged youths, a head coach who had red hair—Dick said that was a dangerous sign!—and a manager who brought joy to the Clearfield supporters by sporting a green alpine hat of the fuzzy variety. Clearfield cheered delightedly when she first laid eyes on that hat, and cheered at intervals throughout the afternoon, whenever the wearer of the hat showed activity. Locust Valley found Clearfield unprepared. The line-up that started the first period for the Purple amazed most of the fellows and displeased those who pretended to be football authorities. Why, in the name of all that was sensible, should Egbert Peyton be playing right tackle? Equally incongruous to them was the presence of George Tupper at right half, of Pete Robey at left guard and of Ambrose Smith at right end. “It’s a wonder,” some critics grumbled, “he’s let Lanny White play!” Defeat for Clearfield was a foregone conclusion after the first five minutes of play. Clearfield got her signals mixed, utterly failed to follow the ball closely, was fooled on the simplest plays and, on the whole, put up as wretched an exhibition of football as one can imagine. Locust Valley was well advanced for so early in the season, her warriors had a diversified attack that was hard to meet and her coach was a tactician of merit. At the end of the first period Locust Valley had scored a touchdown by a mixture of old-fashioned line-plunging and new-fashioned cross-passing and had kicked a goal. Clearfield had not succeeded in even threatening the opponent’s citadel. Dick imperturbably put Harry Bryan in at left end and Thad Brimmer at center and the game went on. Clearfield showed occasional flashes of real football, as when, half-way through the second period, Lanny, with Cottrell interfering, ran some thirty yards straight through the opponents and placed the pigskin on Locust Valley’s twenty-three yards. But after that the Purple’s offense was too weak to make much impression on the enemy and the ball was soon being punted back up the field. Clearfield showed almost no team-play. It was every man for himself, and some of the individual efforts were extremely crude. The team’s supporters hoped against hope well into that second period and then began to grumble. Some of the things that were said about the team and about the coach were uncomplimentary in the extreme. The kindest thing that was muttered of Dick by these malcontents was that he didn’t know enough football to coach a girl’s school! The first half ended with the score 11 to 0, Locust Valley having failed to kick a goal from a difficult angle. To make a long story short, the enemy departed later in the afternoon with the ball and a 26 to 3 victory. That three points Clearfield managed to secure in the last five minutes of the battle by the timely introduction of Morris Brent. Coach Lovering used practically three elevens that day, and, considering the sort of game put up by some of the players, it was a wonder that Locust Valley didn’t double her score! Clearfield retired from the field in a mutinous mood. There was even talk of a mass meeting to protest against the further retention of Dick as coach. Clearfield, they said bitterly, had never been beaten as badly as that in the memory of any student, and only once before had she failed to win from Locust Valley. It was all very well to make the Springdale game the goal of the season’s work, but there was no sense in being licked by every little whipper-snapper of an opponent meanwhile. Why hadn’t Lovering used the team that had beaten Highland Hall last Saturday instead of experimenting with every kid who had the price of a pair of canvas trousers? Dick had his defenders, of course, but they were in the minority. As for Dick himself, he showed no concern over the outcome of that contest. George Cotner, whose confidence in Dick had been somewhat shaken that afternoon, ventured to offer condolences after the game. “Too bad, Dick,” he said. “Still, we did score on ’em. I suppose, considering everything, we couldn’t have expected to win.” <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i_084fp.jpg" alt="" title="" /> <div class="caption"> “‘Too bad, Dick,’ he said. ‘Still, we did score on ’em.’” </div> </div> “Probably not,” replied Dick calmly. “Let me have your memorandum, please. I want to go over it to-night. By the way, can you find a fellow to help with the dummy on Monday?” “Yes, I’ll get one of the kids. We’ll have to buy some more balls in a day or two, Dick. We lost one to-day, you know.” “Yes, and we may lose more. You’d better order a half-dozen on Monday.” George confided that evening to Cottrell that Dick didn’t seem much worried by the day’s fiasco. “Why should he?” asked Chester loyally, observing the manager with a disapproving scowl. “Who cares what Locust Valley does if we can get a team that will beat Springdale?” “I know,” George hastened to say, “but seems to me it’s a bad idea to let any team walk over us the way Locust Valley did. It—it sort of destroys confidence. Besides, just between you and me, Chester, the fellows don’t like it much. I’ve heard talk of a meeting to protest.” Chester shrugged his square shoulders and grinned. “Let ’em,” he said shortly. “Much good it’ll do ’em. Dick Lovering’s coach and he’s going to be coach. We all agreed to give him a free rein and he’s going to have it. It seems to me the best thing you can do is to stand up for him, George.” “I am!” declared the other, scandalized by the insinuation. “I do! I’ve been telling fellows all the afternoon that Dick knows what he’s doing and that if he wants to lose every game but the Springdale game he has a perfect right to do it!” “All right. Then don’t talk as if you thought he didn’t have any sense.” And Chester turned away with a scowl that, because of a strip of dirty white plaster on his cheek-bone, made him look quite ferocious. Dick’s request for twenty more candidates resulted in the appearance of some eight or ten youths, mostly of tender years and all without football experience. Cotner and Lanny viewed the volunteers pessimistically, but Dick failed to exhibit any disappointment at the result of his summons. He added the new fellows to the rest and went diligently on. On Monday there was a full hour of dummy-tackling, and fellows who had prided themselves on their ability in that line had much of the conceit taken out of them. Dick’s knowledge of tackling surprised even Lanny and Gordon and others who believed the most firmly in his ability to lead Clearfield to victory. For a fellow who had never handled a pigskin, he certainly had a whole lot of knowledge stowed away in that head of his! He fell foul of Tom Haley early in the proceedings and the fact that Tom was a very good friend of his made no difference in his speech. “How long have you been playing, Tom?” asked Dick coldly as the last year’s center picked himself up from the dirt. “Three or four years,” answered Tom in some surprise, pausing in the act of rubbing the soil from his face. “Then you ought to be ashamed to tackle like that,” said Dick severely. “Try it again, please. And remember that the idea is to stop the man and not tickle him under the knees!” Tom flushed, choked down a retort that his companions in the line surmised was none too patient and poised himself again while the swaying dummy once more crossed the pit. “Now get into it!” urged Dick. “Stop him! Put him back!” Perhaps chagrin was responsible for what ensued. Tom made a hard dive and whipped his arms out for the canvas body, but in some way the dummy eluded him and Tom rolled over sprawling on his back, while the stuffed figure, with its faded C, went dancing crazily on its way. Tom picked himself up, angrily aware of the amused expressions on the faces of the others, and, brushing his hands absorbedly, took up his position again at the end of the line. Dick said nothing. Another candidate hurled himself at the dummy, with a rattle and bang of chain and pulley, and then another and another. Dick awarded each one a word of criticism, approving or disparaging. “Better, Way.” “All right, Jack.” “Rotten, Bert. Get in front and not behind.” “Brimmer, you act as if you were afraid of it! Try it again.” Ultimately it was once more Tom Haley’s turn, and Tom had a little disk of white on each cheek as he watched Manager Cotner pull the dummy back and lay hold of the other rope. An expectant silence fell. Dick nodded and the figure started across the pit on its iron trolley. Tom, hands clenched, ran forward a few steps and launched himself. His arms enwrapped the dummy’s thighs, there was a mighty grunt from Tom and the sound of ripping canvas, and tackler and dummy reposed in the dirt while the chain and ring sped jangling around the block toward the further end. A burst of hilarity greeted the performance. Dick smiled. “That’s the way to do it, Tom,” he approved heartily as Tom tossed the dummy from his prostrate form and arose, “and I’d like to see every one of you tear it off the ring every time! Get a new strap made for that by to-morrow, George, please. That’s all for to-day, fellows. On the trot now. Two laps around the field before you go in.” The mass meeting didn’t materialize. No one had really expected it to. What had seemed a catastrophe on Saturday had become merely an unfortunate incident by Monday. No one, you may be sure, had mentioned the matter to Dick, but he was not in ignorance of the sentiment of the school in general. But if it bothered him he made no sign. He went on his way smiling. Even when on the next Wednesday it became known that Will Horsford had been forbidden further participation in football by reason of a weak heart discovered in the course of a physical examination by Mr. Murray, and the fellows learned that Dick had insisted on a revival of a regulation that had become virtually a dead letter and criticism was rampant, Dick appeared to be quite unaware of it. Horsford was a good player, a lineman who had performed creditably at guard and tackle for two seasons, and there was no contradicting the assertion so loudly made that the team had lost one of its best men. Dick’s course in insisting on physical examinations for the candidates was labeled absurd. “What’s the good,” fellows asked, “of reviving that rot? If Faculty is satisfied why do we need to complain? And look what the result is! One of the best players we had lost to us!” Nor was the explanation of Dick’s friends that it was good policy to take no chances with fellows physically weak and so liable to injury accepted as sufficient. “Lovering’s too much of a granny for this job,” was the answer. “He ought to be coaching the grammar school team!” On Thursday Dick began the formation of a First Squad—Squad A he called it—and to it he gathered an even two dozen. The balance he formed into Squad B. There were some surprises in that partitioning. Page Kent, right guard in the Highland Hall game, was relegated to Squad B, as was Jack Toll, right end. Guy Felker, who had always played half or fullback, was tried out as end, and Fudge Shaw was made unintelligible for days by being placed on Squad A amongst the candidates for the position of guard. Harry Partridge, who had started the season as captain of the Scrub, found himself elevated to the upper squad, and it was Tom Nostrand who fell heir to his honor. That alone was sufficient to excite comment, for Nostrand had never shown any particular ability as a player. He had, however, a full set of brains, as Dick pointed out to Lanny when the latter showed surprise at the selection. “Nostrand won’t make a first-class player in a hundred years,” said Dick with conviction, “but, unless I’m away off my track, he’s just the fellow to run the Scrubs. He’s smart, thinks like lightning, can handle fellows and knows the way things ought to be done even if he can’t do them. I expect him to work out a mighty good team of what he’s got to work on.” Dick’s prediction proved correct, although the fact didn’t appear just yet. On Saturday the eleven journeyed to Norrisville and played the Norrisville Academy team. The forty or fifty supporters who made the trip with the team scarcely looked for a victory for the Purple, for rumor credited the Academy with being unusually strong this Fall, while it wasn’t apparent to the Clearfield rooters that Dick’s aggregation was one whit better than a week before. But their expressions of resigned gloom were speedily turned to looks of surprised delight, for Clearfield set about things in a hearty, not-to-be-denied manner that amazed Norrisville as much as it did the Clearfield supporters. The Purple started with Bryan, left end, Partridge, left tackle, Cable, left guard, Haley, center, A. Beaton, right guard, Scott, right tackle, Felker, right end, Cottrell, quarter, White, left half, Tupper, right half and N. Beaton, fullback. There was much more coherence apparent than there had been a week ago, although real team-play was yet to be discovered. Cottrell ran the eleven in excellent shape and chose his plays better than he ever had. The attack, while restricted to only a half-dozen plays, had power and the defense really deserved the name. Nelson Beaton, at full, was the man of the day, for he showed a quite unsuspected ability to gain through the line and his plunges were hard to stop until he was well into the secondary defense. At end, Felker showed promise but was still too unaccustomed to the duties of the position to be entirely satisfactory. Scott was weak at right tackle. Partridge did well at left tackle and Bryan, on the wing at that end, was almost spectacular. Just to prove that they knew something besides hitting the line, Cottrell got three forward passes away for good gains in the first half. Thereafter the Purple stuck to old-style football, playing on the defensive for most of the time. For, with 17 points to their credit against the opponent’s 6, why worry, as Chester Cottrell put it? Norrisville earned her one touchdown, which came to her in the second period, by taking advantage of a fumble by Tupper of a punt which nearly went over his head. Norrisville fell on the rolling ball on Clearfield’s twenty-two yards and, using a shift which completely fooled her opponent, smashed straight through Scott for a score. Of Clearfield’s two touchdowns, Lanny made one and Nelson Beaton the other, and in each case a goal was secured. The remaining three points were secured by an easy drop-kick from the twenty-three yards which went neatly across the bar. That was Morris Brent’s usual contribution and he was taken out again soon after. Perhaps the most encouraging feature of that game was the showing of Partridge at left tackle. To immediately discover a player capable of stepping into the shoes of the disbarred Horsford was a fine piece of luck and did much toward reconciling the fellows to the loss of the former tackle and exonerating Dick of the blame. It was generally conceded after the Norrisville High game that Coach Lovering had really done very well with the team in the scant ten days he had been at the helm. And doubtless he had, although it must be taken into consideration that Norrisville had not presented a very strong team. Dick took eighteen players with him that afternoon and gave each of them a chance at some time during the game. Gordon Merrick, whom he had placed on Squad A, went in for the whole fourth period. Gordon was Dick’s closest friend and it may be that he had allowed his friendship to somewhat sway his judgment, for Dick was only human. In any case, the result had been disappointing, and Dick intimated as much that evening when the two boys were walking downtown to the Auditorium to see the moving pictures. “I think,” said Dick, “you can play a better game than you did to-day, Gordie. What was the trouble?” “I don’t know,” answered Gordon ruefully. “I guess I was pretty poor, though. I don’t believe there’s much use wasting time on me, Dick. I’d never play half as well as George Tupper.” “I’d like to have you on the team,” said Dick thoughtfully. “I’d like to make it, too, but—well, I guess I’m no born football player, Dickums.” “There isn’t such a thing as a born football player, Gordie. You see what you can do this week, will you? You know I want to give you every chance, but I can’t afford to play any favorites. You understand, don’t you?” “Of course! I wouldn’t want you to, Dickums. I’ll do my level best and if I don’t make a heap better showing you drop me. Don’t think I’m going to be peevish about it. I know perfectly well I haven’t any business on the First. So do you.” Dick laughed. “Well, we’ll see. To be frank, Gordie, you haven’t shown up as well as Tupper or Hansard, and I can’t very well keep more than two substitute halves. In fact, to stay with Squad A you’ll have to beat out either Hansard or McCoy. Unless—” Dick hesitated and it was not until they had crossed Main Street that he continued. Then, “I wonder how you’d shape up at end, Gordie.” “Try me,” said Gordon. “I’ve never played end. But, say, you’ve got all kinds of good ends, Dick! Bryan was a wonder to-day, and then there’s Felker and Toll and Grover. Still, I’d like to try. I’m a pretty rotten halfback, that’s certain!” “All right. I’ll try you to-morrow. We must be late. Look at the mob at the door!” “There’s Fudge and Harry. I’ll ask them to get our tickets.” And Gordon, whose turn it was to treat, slipped his two dimes into Fudge’s hand just as that youth reached the window where sat the resplendent ticket seller. “Hello, Gordon! Two? Sure! Four of your best tickets, please!” The latter remark was addressed to the ticket seller and elicited only a haughty stare and four little blue tickets torn from a seemingly endless strip. But Fudge chuckled at his own joke, quite unaffected by the man’s hauteur, and the four boys crowded through the door and sought seats together in the darkened house. The Auditorium prided itself on being very high-class and Fudge was soon grumbling about the sort of photo-plays being presented. “Gee,” he confided to Dick, “these pictures make me tired! They never have anything exciting any more. Say, know what I’m going to do? Well, I’m going to make that story I’m writing into a ‘movie’ play. How’s that?” “Great!” said Dick. “How are you getting on with it?” “Pretty well,” answered the other with a sudden lapse of enthusiasm. “The trouble is I don’t seem able to work it out. You see, the fellow who murdered the old codger, Middleton, had to get into that room somehow, didn’t he?” “I suppose he did,” agreed Dick. “Well, but how could he? There were bars at the window and the door was locked inside.” “I guess he committed suicide, Fudge.” “Couldn’t have,” responded Fudge decidedly. “The wound was on the back of his head.” “You could change that, couldn’t you?” “Y-yes, but that wouldn’t do. He had to be murdered so that Young Sleuth could unravel the mystery, don’t you see? I thought maybe I’d have it that the murderer was hidden somewhere in the room and escaped afterwards, but Young Sleuth looked everywhere. There’s six pages about his examination of the room and his finding a clew.” “What sort of a clew did he find?” asked Dick, trying to seem interested in Fudge’s conversation and at the same time follow the story being thrown on the screen. “Finger-prints,” confided Fudge, “and a piece of torn paper with three words on it.” “Fine! What were the words?” “I don’t know yet. I haven’t got to that. Young Sleuth found the paper and didn’t let on he had it. Detective stories are awfully hard to write. But it would make a dandy ‘movie’!” By that time the patience of those sitting in the neighborhood was exhausted and Fudge was requested to stop talking. He subsided with a grin, but a close observer would have seen that he was not paying much heed to the polite adventures of the beautiful heroine of the photo-play. Instead of looking toward the stage he fixed his gaze on the bald head of the man in front of him and surreptitiously munched chestnuts. When, finally, the play ended with a moonlight scene in which virtue was brilliantly triumphant, Fudge grunted his disapproval and once more turned to Dick. “I’ve got it!” he whispered hoarsely. “Got what?” asked Dick. “The solution! Old Middleton was attacked outside the room and went in there and locked the door himself! How’s that?” “That might do,” conceded Dick, “but how about the clews?” Fudge’s face fell. “That’s so. I guess I could change that about the clews, though. What’s this fellow going to do? Play a banjo? Gee, this is a bum show!” <hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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