Left End Edwards

Steve took it and glanced over it, a puzzled frown on his forehead.

"What's the matter?" asked Tom. "Don't you like it? I guess it is pretty punk, though."

"It's all right, as far as I know," answered Steve, returning the book. "Only—I don't understand–"

"Don't understand what? Say, you're as mysterious as—as—Sherlock Holmes!"

"Nothing. By the way, a funny thing happened." Steve wandered toward the window, his back to Tom, "When I went down to find 'Horace' I picked up a blue-book that was on his table and brought it up here. It was Upton's. I—I hadn't any recollection of doing it, but he found it lying on the table. Of course I felt like a fool."

"Oh," said Tom after a moment. "That—that was funny. I didn't see you bring it in with you." There was a note of constraint in his voice that did not escape Steve.

"I don't remember bringing it in," he replied. "I saw it on the table down there and—and looked at it, had it in my hand, but I don't remember bringing it up."

"Funny," said Tom lightly. "Did—did he say anything?"

"Oh, no. Of course I denied it at first, said I couldn't have taken it, but he said I must have, unless—unless you had. He asked if you were in his room and I said no."

"But I was!" exclaimed Tom. "Don't you remember? I went down just before we went out. But there wasn't any blue-book on his table then. At least, I didn't see any."

"Well, it doesn't matter. I told him you hadn't been there. I—I'd let him think so, anyway. There's no use having any more bother about the old thing."

"Well, but—you're sure he wasn't waxy? Of course I didn't take the book; you can prove that I didn't have it when I came back; but if he's acting ugly about it, why—I'll tell him I was in there too. He can lay it on me if he wants to. I—I think I'll tell him, Steve."

"You keep out of it," answered Steve roughly. "What's the use of having any more talk about it? He's got the book and there's no harm done."

Tom considered a moment. Then, "You're certain?" he asked.

"Certain of what?"

"That—that it's all right, that he doesn't blame you for it."

"Oh, he knows I did it, but he doesn't mind. What time is it?"

"A quarter past ten. What are you doing?"

Steve was ripping his bed to pieces. "I want a couple of blankets," he said. "Haven't we some thumb-tacks somewhere?"

"Table drawer," replied Tom. "What's the game?"

"I'm going to do that rotten composition." Steve climbed to a chair, and with the aid of push-pins draped one of the blankets over the door and transom. Then he pulled the window-shade close and hung the second blanket inside the casement. "There! Now if anyone sees a light in this room they'll have to have mighty good eyes. You tumble into bed, Tom, and try to imagine it's dark."

"Bed? Who wants to go to bed?" asked Tom, smothering a yawn. "I'm going to help you with it."

"No, you're not," replied Steve doggedly. "I'm going to do it and I'm going to do it all myself if it takes me until daylight. Now shut up."

CHAPTER XVIII

B PLUS AND D MINUS

At half-past ten the next morning Mr. Daley hurried into the class-room where French IV was already assembled, stumbled over the edge of the platform—the boys would have gasped with amazement had he neglected to do that—and took his seat. On one corner of the table in front of him was a pile of blue-books. He drew it toward him and ran a hand along the edges of the books.

"Has everyone handed in his composition?" he asked.

There was no reply and he seemed surprised. "I—er—I am to understand, then, that you have all turned your books in?"

Still no dissenting voice. Mr. Daley's gaze travelled over the class until it encountered Steve at the rear of the room. He opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again, cleared his throat and finally pushed the pile of books aside.

"Very well," he said. "I shall mark these this evening. You will—er—kindly get them to-morrow. Now then, 'Le Siege de Paris'; we left off where, Upton?"

At a few minutes past twelve Steve knocked at Mr. Daley's door, and, obeying the invitation, entered. The instructor was seated at his desk, a litter of blue-books in front of him and a pipe in his mouth. The latter he laid aside as the boy appeared.

"You said you wanted to see me, sir," said Steve.

"Er—yes, Edwards. Sit down, please." The instructor took up his pipe again, hurriedly put it aside, seized a pencil and jotted nervously on the back of a book. Finally,

"I—er—find your composition here," he said. "When did you write it?"

"Between half-past ten last night and two o'clock this morning."

"Hm!" Mr. Daley swung around in his chair, viewed the oblong of landscape framed by the window for a moment and swung back again. There was a faint smile about his eyes. "Edwards, you—er—are a bit disconcerting. I presume you know that the rules require you to be in bed with lights out at ten-thirty?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hm! And you—er—deliberately transgressed that rule?"

"I didn't see anything else to do, Mr. Daley. You said I must turn that in by noon and there wouldn't have been time this morning to do it."

"Logically reasoned, my boy, but–" The instructor shook his head. "You mustn't expect me to compliment you on your performance, Edwards. To perform one duty by neglecting another is hardly—er—commendable. If it were not that you had transgressed a rule of the school, Edwards, I might compliment you quite highly. Your composition—I—er—I've been glancing through it—is really very good. I don't mean that you have not made mistakes of grammar, for you have, lots of them, but—er—you have written a well-constructed and—er—well-expressed narrative. What I—er—especially like about it is the subject. You have written of something you know about, something close at home, so to say. I—er—I am not much of a swimmer myself, but I presume that the instructions you have laid down here are—er—quite correct. In fact, Edwards, I'll even go so far as to say that I fancy one might take this composition of yours and—er—really learn something about swimming. And—er—if you have ever tried to learn anything of the sort—golf, rowing, tennis—from a hand-book you will realise that that is high praise."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"I had decided to mark your composition with a B, Edwards. Perhaps the many mistakes in grammar would ordinarily indicate a C, perhaps even a C minus, but the—er—other merits of the exercise are so pronounced that, on the whole, I think it deserves a B."

"Thank you, sir."

"Er—just a moment." The instructor held up a hand. "I said that I had decided to give you a B, Edwards. That, however, was before I had learned when this was written. I shall now give it a D minus. You—er—you understand why, Edwards?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm sorry, but I—er—must take into consideration the facts in the case. And those facts are that you neglected your work until the last moment and then disobeyed one of the well-known rules of the school in order to perform it. There is one other thing I might do. I might credit you with a B on your exercise and report you to the Office for disobeying the rules. But—er—I think, on the whole, that the first method is the more satisfactory. You understand, of course, that anything under a C in this test is equivalent to failure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hm; exactly. Therefore, Edwards, you will be required to make up nearly a month's work in French. I shall have to ask you to prove to me that you are in line with the rest of the class. But you will have a full week to do this and I—er—I suspect that you will not find it very difficult." Mr. Daley took up a blue pencil and marked a large "D—" on the corner of the blue-book. "You might as well take this now, Edwards. Bring me another composition not later than a week from to-day, please." The instructor fluttered the leaves of a memorandum-pad and made a note opposite a future date. "I have not corrected it, but, as you have it to do over, that is not necessary."

Mr. Daley leaned back in his chair and gazed for a minute at the table. Then,

"There is one other thing, Edwards," he said hesitantly. "About last night, you know; the—er—the misappropriation of Upton's blue-book. Have you—er—thought that over?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"Hm! I should like to ask you one question and receive an absolutely truthful reply, Edwards."

"Yes, sir."

"When you took that book to your room did you intend to—er—make a wrong use of it?"

"No, sir. I saw the book on your table, Mr. Daley, and—and it did occur to me that it would be easy to copy it out in my own writing and—and turn it in as my work, sir. I read a little of it and put it back on the table. But I don't at all remember seeing it again after that, sir, and that's the truth. I haven't the slightest recollection of having it in my hand when I left this room or of putting it on the table upstairs. And—and I'd like you to believe me, sir."

"I want to, Edwards, I want to," replied Mr. Daley eagerly. "And—er—to-day your story sounds much more plausible. I can imagine that, with the thought of your own composition in mind and doubtless worrying you, you might easily have—er—absentmindedly picked that book from the table here when you went out and taken it to your room without being conscious of the act. I believe that to be quite possible, Edwards, and I am going to think it happened just that way. I have never observed any signs of—er—dishonesty in you, my boy, and I don't think you are a liar. We will consider that matter closed and we will both forget all about it."

"Thank you, sir," replied Steve gratefully.

"But, Edwards, this seems to me a good time to tell you that—er—that your attitude toward—er—your work and toward those in authority has not been satisfactory. You have—er—impressed me as a boy with, to use a vulgar expression, a grouch. Now, get that out of your system, Edwards. No one is trying to impose on you. Your work is no harder than the next fellow's. What you lack is, I presume, application. I—er—I don't deny that possibly you are pressed for time when it comes to studying, but that is your fault. Your football work is exacting, for one thing, although there are plenty of fellows—I could name twenty or thirty with whom I come in contact—who manage to play football and maintain an excellent class standing at the same time. So, Edwards, the fault lies somewhere with you, in you, doubtless. Now, what do you think it is?"

"I don't know, Mr. Daley." Steve shook his head hopelessly. "I want to do what's right, sir, but—but somehow I can't seem to."

"When you study do you put your mind on it, or do you find yourself thinking of other things, football, for instance?"

"I guess I think of other things a good deal," replied Steve.

"Football?"

"I guess so; football and—and swimming and—lots of things, sir."

"There's a time for football and a time for study, Edwards. You will have to first of all—er—leave football behind you when you come off the field. Swimming, the same way. It won't work. I've seen it tried too often, Edwards. You—er—you wouldn't want to have to give up football, I suppose?"

"No, sir!" Steve looked up in alarm.

"But it might come to that, my boy. You're here to learn, you know, and we would not be treating your parents fairly—or you either—if we allowed you to waste your time. Football is an excellent sport; one of the best, I think; but it's only a sport, not a—er—profession, you know. All the knowledge of football in the world isn't going to help you when you leave here and try to enter college. By the way, I presume you intend to go to college, Edwards?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then keep that in mind. Remember that you're getting yourself ready for it. Perhaps that will make your work seem better worth doing. How are you getting on with your Latin?"

"Very well, sir, just now."

"Better see that 'just now' becomes 'all the time,' Edwards. Why, look here! You can do the work set you and play football or baseball or anything else if you'll make up your mind to it. You're a bright, normal fellow, with the average amount of brains. Systematise, Edwards! Arrange your day right. Mark down so many hours for recitations, so many hours for study, so many hours for play, and stick to your schedule. You'll find after awhile that it comes easy. You'll find that you—er—you'll miss studying when anything keeps you from it. When you go out of here I want you to do that very thing, my boy. I want you to go right up to your room, take a sheet of paper and make out a daily schedule. And when you've got it done put it somewhere where you'll see it. And stick to it! Will you?"

"Yes, sir; that is, I—I'll do my best."

"Good!" Mr. Daley held out a hand, smiling. "Shake hands on it, Edwards. You may not believe it, but half of—er—doing a thing consists of making up your mind to it! Well, that's all, I think. Er—you'd better look me up this evening and we'll settle about that French. Good-bye. Hope I haven't made you late for dinner."

Steve drew a deep breath outside the door, puckered his lips and whistled softly, but it was a thoughtful whistle; as thoughtful as it was tuneless, and it lasted him all the way upstairs and into his room. Tom had gone, evidently having wearied of waiting for his friend to accompany him to dinner. Steve's own appetite was calling pretty loudly, but, having slipped the blue-book out of sight under a pile on the table, he dropped into his chair, drew a sheet of paper to him and began on the schedule. It took him almost a half-hour to complete it, and he spoiled several sheets in the process, but it was finally done, and, heading it "Daley Schedule," with a brief smile at the pun, he placed it on his chiffonier and hurried across to Wendell.

CHAPTER XIX

THE SECOND PUTS IT OVER

"What do you know about that?" demanded Tom the next day. "'Horace' gave me a B on my comp! Of course, I'm not kicking, but I'll bet he made a mistake. Maybe he got nervous and his pencil slipped!"

"Seems to me," returned Steve coldly, "he knows better than you do what the thing is worth. He's not exactly an idiot, you know."

Tom stared in some surprise. "I didn't say he was an idiot, did I? Considering the things you've said about 'Horace' I don't think you need take that high-and-mighty tone!"

"Well, don't be a chump, then," replied Steve. "If Mr. Daley gave you a B you deserved a B."

"Thanking you kindly," murmured Tom as he disappeared behind the pages of the blue-book to digest the corrections and criticisms on the margins. Steve's manner since the night he had remained up until morning to write that composition had been puzzling. He had very little to say to Tom, and when he did speak, spoke in a constrained manner quite unlike him. And more than once Tom had caught Steve observing him with an expression that he couldn't fathom. There was something up, that was certain, but what it was Tom couldn't imagine. It wasn't that Steve was cross or disagreeable. For that matter, his disposition seemed a good deal improved. But he was decidedly stand-offish and extraordinarily quiet. Tom wanted to ask outright what the trouble was, but, for some reason, he held back. As the days passed, Steve's manner became more natural and he ceased looking at Tom as though, to quote the latter's unspoken simile, he was a new sort of an animal in a zoo! But some constraint still remained, and, after awhile, Tom accepted the situation and grew accustomed to it. By that time he had grown too proud to ask for an explanation. The two chums spent less time together as a result, Steve becoming more dependent on Roy for companionship and Tom on Harry. When they were all four together, which was very frequently, it was not so bad, but when Steve and Tom were alone conversation was apt to languish.

Tom at first was inclined to blame Steve's "Daley Schedule" for the change, for that schedule had quite altered Steve's existence. He lived by a strict routine which he followed with a dogged determination quite foreign to his ways as Tom knew them. He got up on time in the morning, reached the dining-hall almost as soon as the doors were opened, spent a scant twenty minutes there and then went directly back to his room to browse over his recitations for the day. Once Tom found him there hunched up in a corner of the window-seat while the chambermaid, viewing his presence distastefully, draped the furniture with bedding and did her best with broom and duster to discourage him from a repetition of the outrage. Between ten and eleven on three days a week Steve put in an hour of study in the room. On other days he managed to snatch two half-hour periods in the library between recitations. At six he was almost invariably awaiting the opening of the doors for dinner, and well before seven he was at his table again. Usually he studied until nine, although now and then he closed his books at half-past eight and followed Tom to Number 17 Torrence. Roy called him the Prize Grind and interestedly inquired what scholarship he was trying for. Steve accepted the joking with a grim smile.

It wasn't easy. For the first few days he had to drive himself to his work with bit and spur. His feet lagged and he groaned in spirit—perhaps audibly, too—as he approached his books. But he did it, and little by little it became easier, until, as Mr. Daley had predicted, it had become a habit with him to do certain things at certain hours and he was uncomfortable if his routine was disarranged. I don't think Steve ever got where he loved to study, but he did eventually reach a pride of attainment that answered quite as well. He found as time went on that it was becoming easier to learn his lessons and easier to remember them when learned, and by that time he had taught himself to command over his thoughts, and when he was struggling through a proposition in geometry he wasn't wondering whether he would beat out Sherrard for the position of regular right end on the second before the season was over. In other words, he had learned concentration.

But all this was not yet. That first week, in especial, was hard sledding, and that French composition almost drove him to distraction and gave him brain fever before it was done. But done it was and on time, and, while the best that Mr. Daley would allow it was a C plus, Steve was distinctly proud of it. And in that week he demonstrated to the instructor's satisfaction that he was up with the class in French. I think Mr. Daley was very willing to be convinced and that he met Steve quite half-way. Latin was still a bugaboo to Steve, but it, too, was getting easier. On the whole, that schedule, backed by a grim determination, was making good.

Meanwhile football pursued its relentless course. Every day the first and second fought it out for gradually increasing periods and every day the season grew nearer its close and the Claflin game, the final goal, loomed more distinct. Phillips School came and went and Brimfield marked up her fifth victory. Phillips gave the Maroon-and-Grey a hard tussle, and the score, 12 to 0, didn't indicate the closeness of the playing. For Brimfield made her first touchdown by the veriest fluke and only gained her second in the last few minutes of play, when Phillips, outlasted, weakened on her six-yard line and let Norton through. On the other hand, Phillips had the ball thrice inside Brimfield's twenty yards, missed a field-goal by the narrowest of margins and, with the slightest twist of the luck, might have proved the victor.

"Boots" had hammered the second into what Mr. Robey unhesitatingly declared to be one of the best scrub teams he had ever seen, and there was more than one contest between it and the 'varsity that yielded nothing to an outside game for hard fighting and excitement. Steve and his rival, Sherrard, were running about even for the right end position. Steve's tackling had improved vastly under Marvin's tutoring, and it was his ability in that department that possibly gave him a shade the better of the argument with Sherrard. So far there had been no decided slump in the playing of either team, and, since a slump is always looked for at some time during the season, both Mr. Robey and Danny Moore were getting anxious. Danny almost begged the fellows to go stale a little. "It ain't natural," he declared. "It's got to come, so let it and have it over with." Neither had there been any injuries of moment. On this score Danny had no regrets, however. He was a good trainer and prided himself on his ability to condition his charges so that they would escape injuries.

Of course there had been plenty of bruises—one mild case of charley-horse, several dislocated or sprained fingers, a wrenched ankle or two and any number of cuts and scrapes, but none of the injuries had interfered with work for more than three or four days and not once had any first-string member of the 'varsity missed an outside game by reason of them. Steve's share of the injuries was a bruised shoulder sustained in a flying tackle that was more enthusiastic than scientific, and the thing bothered him for several days but did not keep him off the field. Tom, who played opposite Jay Fowler in scrimmage, was forever getting his countenance disfigured. Not that Fowler meant to leave his mark, but he was a big, powerful, hard-fighting chap and there were plenty of times when both parties to the practice games quite forgot that they were friends. Tom was seldom seen without a strip of court-plaster pasted to some portion of his face.

It was four days after the Phillips game, to be exact, on the following Wednesday, that the first and second got together for what turned out to be the warmest struggle of the season in civil combat. It was a cold, leaden day, with a stinging breeze out of the northeast, and every fellow who wore a head-guard felt as full of ginger as a young colt. The second trotted over from their gridiron at four and found the first on its toes to get at them. Things started off with a whoop. The second received the kick-off and Marvin ran the ball back forty yards through a broken field before he was nailed. Encouraged by that excellent beginning, the scrub team went at it hammer and tongs. There was a fine old hole that day between Sawyer and Williams, and the second's backs ploughed through for gain after gain before the opposing line was cemented together again there. By that time the ball was down near the 'varsity's ten yards and Captain Miller was frothing at the mouth, while the opposing coaches were hurling encouragement at their charges and the pandemonium even extended to the side-lines, where the school at large, in a frenzy of excitement, shouted and goaded on the teams.

Twice the first held, once forcing Harris back for a loss, and then Marvin called for kick formation and himself held the ball for Brownell. What happened then was one of those unforeseen incidents that make football the hair-raising game it is. There was a weak spot in the second's line and, with the passing of the ball to Marvin, the 'varsity forwards came rampaging through. Brownell swung his leg desperately, trusting to fortune to get the pigskin over the upstretched hands of the charging enemy, but it swung against empty air. Marvin, seeing what was bound to happen, fearing the result of a blocked kick, snatched the ball aside just as Captain Brownell swung at it, rolled over a couple of times out of the path of the oncoming opponents, scrambled to his feet and, somehow, scuttled past a half-dozen defenders of the goal and fell over the line for a touchdown.

The 'varsity afterwards called it "bull-luck" and "fluke" and several other belittling names, but "Boots" said it was "quick thinking and football, by jiminy!" At all events the second scored and then leaped and shouted like a band of Comanche Indians—or any other kind of Indian if there's a noisier sort!—and generally "rubbed it in."

After that you may believe that the 'varsity played football! But nevertheless the first ten-minute period ended with the second still six points to the good and her goal-line intact. The teams were to play three periods that day and "Boots" ran four substitutes on the field when the next one began. One of them was Steve.

It is no light task to play opposite the 'varsity captain and not come off second best, but the consensus of opinion that evening was to the effect that Steve had done that very thing. The wintery nip had got into Steve's blood, I think, for he played like a tiger-cat on the defence, ran like a streak of wind and tackled so hard that Coach Robey had to caution him. Twice in that period the first came storming down to the second's twenty yards and twice they were held there. Once Milton was nailed on a round-the-end run and once Still fumbled a pass and Freer fell on it.