Left Half Harmon

Coach Cade used many substitutes during the final quarter, and Martin Proctor was one of them, and Willard was delighted to see his chum put up a fine game at right guard when Bob went out. At left half, the position that Willard was especially interested in, Arnold Lake played to the end of the third period and then gave place to Mawson. Both played well and Willard was more certain than before that if he was to make the first team this year it would have to be in some other capacity than that of left half!

When the game was done the Squad A players who had not participated were lined up against a Squad B eleven and there followed a short scrimmage in which Willard played left half for B and had a lot of fun. Squad A wasn’t formidable and it was no great stunt to gain outside her tackles, and once Willard got nicely away and would have made the only score of the scrimmage if an obnoxious youth named Hutchins, and better known as “Hutch,” hadn’t pulled him down on the six yards. From there, in spite of all her efforts, B couldn’t make much gain and the fourth down found the ball a yard short of the line. The scrimmage ended with a score and the empty stand attested the amount of interest the game provided the onlookers who had remained after the big contest. But Willard had enjoyed it and won a set of bruised fingers when one of the enemy had set an ungentle foot thereon, and he was quite contented the rest of the evening. But he did a lot of thinking and consulted Martin on the advisability of trying for an end position, and showed no gratitude when he was advised to fatten himself up and try for center!

“You seem to be willing to stick on the bench all season,” he said aggrievedly, “but I don’t see any fun in that. If I – ”

“How do you mean, stick on the bench?” demanded Martin. “I’m not going to stick on any bench. Haven’t you noticed how pale and wan Bob is getting to look? He won’t last much longer. I think it’s sleeping sickness or something else slow and certain. He won’t acknowledge he’s sick, but I can tell! There’s a worried look about his eyes and Cal Grainger says he sleeps more than he used to.”

“Oh, shut up!” said Willard, grinning.

“Fact, though! You look at Bob some time when he doesn’t know he’s – ah – under observation and you’ll see what I mean. Sleeping sickness is very insidious, Brand, but always fatal. I’m sorry for Bob, of course, but I’m not hypocritical about it!”

“Bob will be playing guard and you’ll be lugging the water pail when we meet Kenly,” retorted Willard. “I’m in earnest, though. Why shouldn’t I try for end instead?”

“Because you’re a half-back, sonny. Playing end is something else again, and you’d have to learn a lot of new tricks, and the season might be over before you’d learn ’em.”

“Well, I’d be ready for next year,” murmured Willard.

“If that’s all you’re looking for, stay where you are. They’ll be using half-backs as well as ends next year, unless the Rules Committee gets gay again!”

“Well, of course I do want to make the team this fall,” acknowledged the other.

“Naturally. So do I. I wanted to last fall, too, but a cruel fate willed otherwise.”

“Oh, you don’t care,” scoffed Willard. “You haven’t any – any – ambition.”

“Ambition? Get out! I’m full of ambish! But I don’t propose to be unhappy because I can’t have the whole pie. I like the fun of playing, Brand, and I don’t worry much because I don’t always get into the game. After all, I’m doing my bit, you know. Someone’s got to be second-choice. Besides, think what a comfort it is to Joe and Bob to know that if they have to leave the game there I am ready to take their places and carry on the good work! Don’t you suppose that thought helps ’em to weather many a – many a dark hour?”

“No, I don’t,” answered Willard disgustedly. “But I guess it helps them to go on playing sometimes when they’re all in! The idea of letting you in – ”

“Don’t say it!” warned Martin, laying a hand significantly on a book. “Them’s hard words! Listen, Brand: are we going to the lecture or aren’t we not?”

“What’s it all about?”

“The Cliff Dwellers of – of Montana, or some place.”

“Arizona?”

“Maybe,” replied Martin cautiously. “Anyway, the fellow’s good. He was here last year. Let’s go. I’ve always wished I’d been born a cliff-dweller. There’s something awfully fascinating in the idea of shinning up a tree-trunk and climbing through a window when you’re ready for bed! Think what fun there must have been at a prep school in those days. When the fellow who lived above you was climbing up all you had to do was reach out and push the tree-trunk away. Gee, you miss a lot of innocent amusement by being born too late!”

Sunday dawned cloudy and dismal, with occasional sprinkles of rain. Breakfast was a half-hour later, and when that was over there was nothing much to do but furbish up for church. But shining one’s shoes and brushing one’s Sunday suit doesn’t consume much time, no matter how thorough and deliberate one may be, and after Willard was ready there still remained the best of an hour. The steam heat had not yet been turned on and the dormitory was chill and unsympathetic. He tried to write a letter to the folks at home, but only got as far as: “Dear Father and Mother.” Martin’s usually placid humor was perceptibly rumpled this morning, and efforts to engage him in conversation resulted in grunts and growls. Willard was heartily glad when it came time to start off for church, even though he felt uncomfortable in a derby and detested carrying an umbrella.

Dinner was at one, a heavy repast topped off with ice cream and cake that left the diner feeling like an anaconda who had just swallowed a goat. Willard, who had failed to get placed at Joe’s table and was with an unusually uninteresting group at the far end of the hall, arose from the board wishing he had not accepted young Stanley’s offer of his ice cream. Or perhaps it was the cake that was to blame. In any case, he felt horribly full and sluggish, and when, at the door, Bob brightly suggested a nice long tramp over to Banning to see the new railway bridge that was under construction he shook his head and pleaded letters to write. Banning was three miles away, and Willard wasn’t sure he could even get back to his room before going to sleep!

“Well, if you change your mind, come on over to the room,” said Bob. “We won’t be starting for half an hour, I guess.”

Willard said he would, being quite certain that his mind was incapable of any change. When he reached Number 16, Martin, too, was disgustingly active. “Come on, Brand,” he cried. “We’re going over to see the new bridge at Banning. Get an old pair of shoes on.”

“I don’t want to see any bridges,” replied Willard morosely. “I – I saw one once.”

“What if you did, you chump! You never saw this one. Don’t be a piker. Look, it’s going to clear up!”

Willard gazed through the window with lackluster eyes and shook his head feebly. “I’ve got to write home,” he murmured, subsiding into a chair.

“You look more as if you were going to sleep,” said Martin in disgust. “All right, sonny, see you later.”

Martin went out, slamming the door behind him and whistling gayly down the corridor. Willard shook his head again. He had never noticed before how objectionably noisy Martin was! Several rooms away a graphophone was playing loudly and boys were singing. Everyone, reflected Willard, seemed to be unnaturally animated today. He guessed they hadn’t eaten two plates of ice cream! After a long time, during which he stared somnolently at his shoes, he pulled himself out of the chair with a groan and reseated himself at the table. Half an hour later he signed the fourth page of his letter “Your aff. son, Willard” and folded it quickly lest he yield to the temptation to read it over. He knew that if he did that he would never send it!

When it was ready for mailing he walked to the window and looked out. It really was clearing! Even as he looked, the sun broke through for a moment and shone weakly on the damp field and the running track beyond. He felt a good deal better now and he wished he had gone to Banning with the others. Well, he hadn’t, and rather than moon around in that chilly room he would slip on an old suit and take a walk. Possibly he would meet the crowd coming back later. He changed from his Sunday attire to an old pair of knickerbockers, a sweater, golf stockings, old shoes and a cap and set forth, proceeding first to the mail box in front of Academy Hall and getting rid of his letter. Stacey Ross hailed him from a third-story window of Lykes as he made his way past toward the athletic field, and he stopped and exchanged badinage for a moment, declining Stacey’s invitations, the first of which was to “Come on up,” and the second to “Go to the dickens!”

He knew that the river lay somewhere to the west and not more than a mile distant, and he set out to find it. His way led him across the athletic field and over the stone wall that bounded it and so into a meadow that descended gradually to a winding fringe of woods a quarter of a mile away. Whether the woods hid the river he didn’t know. It didn’t seem likely, however, for he had a notion that the stream was quite a considerable one: in fact, it must be if the railroad was building a large and expensive bridge across it some two miles further inland!

Before he reached the woods he had thrice been ankle-deep in water, but it was only marsh water and the trees, he found, hid only a narrow and shallow brook. By this time the sun was really out, although not very brightly, and the woods and the stream, with its mossy stones and bordering ferns, looked very pretty. He wondered if there were any trout there, and pursued it for some little distance looking for likely holes. When he had satisfied himself that no respectable trout would deign to live in such a brook he made his way across it by jumping from stone to stone, only once missing, and went on through an alder growth on the other side. When he emerged he was at the foot of a second meadow interspersed with outcropping ledges and clumps of white birches and maples and wild cherry trees. Afar at the left, near where the road presumably wound, was a farm with a white dwelling and a red barn and many comical haycocks that looked golden in the sunlight. Ahead of him a stone wall crossed the summit of the field, pricked out at intervals with spindling cedars whose somber foliage stood darkly against the clearing sky. The September sun, freeing itself from the clouds, shone warmly in Willard’s face as he went on up the rise. When he reached the wall he saw the river below him, a broad, curving ribbon of blue. But it was a good half-mile away yet, and he sat himself on the wall to rest before going on.

The sun felt pleasant to him and, after he had sat there a few minutes, he began to lose interest in a nearer acquaintance with the river. Instead of going on in that direction, he decided, he would turn to the left and try to reach the road. Doubtless Bob and Martin and the others would be returning before very long. Turning his gaze southward, he became aware of the fact that he was not alone. Some two hundred yards away a figure was approaching, a figure which appeared at first glance to be that of a man wearing a dark green sweater and advancing up the slope at a strangely deliberate pace. A second look, however, showed that the person was a boy of perhaps eighteen years and that as he walked he held the end of a forked stick in each hand and was oblivious to all else. He was a tall and rather heavy youth with extremely long legs that moved with machine-like precision and regularity over the grass. His slightly bent head prevented a clear sight of his face, but Willard thought he recognized the boy as one he had glimpsed once or twice about school. Why he should be pacing along here a mile from home, however, a Y-shaped branch in his hand, was a mystery, and Willard watched curiously as he came nearer and nearer.

CHAPTER IX

M’NATT ON SCIENCE

The boy in the green sweater, if left to his own devices, would have passed Willard some fifteen feet away, but curiosity got the better of the latter and when the other was opposite to him he spoke.

“Hello,” he said.

The fellow stopped, turned his head and viewed the boy on the stone wall, quite without surprise, for a long moment. Then he shifted his gaze to the forked stick that he still held extended before him and shook his head slowly.

“I suppose I haven’t got the power,” he remarked thoughtfully.

“What power?” asked Willard.

“Why, the power, or whatever you like to call it, to make this thing work. Have you ever tried it?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” answered Willard, getting down from the wall. “What’s the branch for?”

“Haven’t you ever seen a water-finder?” Willard shook his head, puzzled. “Well, you take a piece of witch-hazel or willow – some say alder or ash will do – and hold it like this by the top branches and walk over the ground. When you come to a place where there’s water below, the lower end there will tilt downwards. I’ve seen it done twice.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that, but I never saw it tried,” answered Willard interestedly. “I supposed it was just nonsense. Did you ever see it succeed?”

The other nodded soberly. “Both times. Old Man Hildreth, back home, did it twice one time for my father, and when we dug where he told us to we came to water. One time it was a regular spring that we found and the other time it was more like a well. I mean we had to dig pretty far down before we came to the water. Old Man Hildreth used witch-hazel, and that’s what I’ve got here. I had to hunt nearly an hour before I found any.”

“Let’s see.” Willard took the Y-shaped piece and looked at it curiously. There was, however, nothing about its appearance to indicate the power attributed to it by the boy in the green sweater. Willard shrugged. “I guess you’ve got to go where you know there’s water,” he said. “It doesn’t look to me as if there’d be much water on top of this hill.”

“You mostly find springs on hillsides,” replied the other mildly, “and that’s why I’ve been looking around here. Maybe I’m too high up now, though.”

Willard seized the branches as he had seen the other hold them and experimentally walked a few steps forward. Nothing happened. For that matter, he hadn’t expected anything would happen.

“You must hold them tight,” advised the other, “so you’ll feel the influence.”

Willard gripped harder and circled about the green sweater. Once, possibly because his muscles were so tense, he thought he felt a tremor, but, when he turned and went back over the spot, the phenomenon was not repeated. “Look here,” he asked, “what do you want to find water for, anyway? There’s a whole river just full of it down there.”

“I wanted to see if I could do it,” answered the other.

“Oh!” Willard looked at the witch-hazel wand in his hands and down the gently sloping meadow. “Let’s go down there and try it,” he suggested finally.

“Very well.” Side by side, Willard still holding the water-finder, the two went down the hill. Willard’s countenance, although he didn’t know it, wore an expression of concentration and expectancy. At the foot of the hill his companion seated himself on a rock and Willard began a systematic exploration of the surrounding territory. When ten minutes or so had passed it dawned on him that he was extremely warm and that, while there was bound to be water underground, since the river was not far distant and very little lower, the forked stick had absolutely failed to register even a tremor of interest! He joined the youth in the green sweater and handed the stick to him in disgust.

“That’s no good,” he said. “Why, I could find water two feet from here if I had a shovel! That’s just bunk!”

“I suppose you and I haven’t the right powers of divination,” replied the other composedly. “I’ll try again some day with a piece of willow.”

Willard said “Humph!” as he seated himself on the rock, and a minute’s silence ensued. Then: “I’ve seen you at school, haven’t I?” Willard asked.

“I presume so. My name is McNatt, and I’m in Upton. What is your class?”

“Junior,” replied Willard. “This is my first year. I suppose you are in the senior class.”

McNatt nodded. “I’ve been here four years. This is my fifth. I was sick my sophomore year and had to go home twice. Once I was away two months and another time I was gone five weeks. That put me behind and I had to take the year over. I guess I could have made it up, but the doctor wouldn’t allow it. I don’t mind at all, though. I like it here. The only thing is that the fellows I came along with have gone and I don’t know many now. But then I never was much for making acquaintances.”

Willard viewed him curiously. McNatt was perhaps nearly nineteen, he thought. His head was large and his features prominent: a very beak-like nose extended well over a wide mouth, his rather pale eyes, which might have been either green or blue for all Willard could determine, were deepset under heavy brows and his chin jutted out almost aggressively. But in spite of his features McNatt did not impress Willard as being a forceful youth, nor did his expression, voice or manners suggest it. He had a pleasant, deep voice and spoke slowly, almost hesitantly, and, while he didn’t smile frequently, his countenance bespoke good humor. He had very dark-brown hair, and there was a good deal of it, and it was perceptibly wavy under the rim of his straw hat. The straw hat, like the rest of his attire, had seen better days. In fact, McNatt’s trousers, of blue serge that had changed to plum-color on the knees, would not have greatly interested an old clothes man! The garment that clothed the upper part of his body was equally disreputable, a dark-green coat-sweater with many darns and one pocket that was trying hard to get away. The shoes alone appeared to be of recent origin, but as they were caked with mud along the soles the fact would have escaped casual observation.

“What made you think of this stunt?” asked Willard, nodding at the witch-hazel stick.

McNatt’s countenance expressed faint surprise. “Why, I’ve always been very interested in scientific matters,” he replied gravely.

“Oh,” said Willard, “do you call that science?”

“I’m not sure,” answered the other slowly. “The diving-rod, as it is sometimes called, has been in use a great many years both for the discovery of water and metals. Taking science in its broader sense of truth ascertained and systematized, almost anything not capable of classification as an art may well be termed a science. While the affinity existing between the diving-rod and water or metals underground may be viewed as a phenomenon, yet when we make use of that affinity to produce systematic results we enter the realm of science.”

Willard blinked. “I – I suppose so,” he agreed vaguely. “Can you find gold that way, too?”

“It has been done, I think,” said McNatt. “I haven’t been able to find much data on that subject, though.”

Willard looked more respectfully at the witch-hazel switch. “I guess it wouldn’t be much use looking for gold around here, though,” he said. “How would you know whether you had found gold or water if the thing dipped?”

McNatt considered in silence a moment. Then he shook his head. “I can’t say,” he replied. “Perhaps you couldn’t tell. Though, as gold is generally located away from water you would hardly expect that the diving-rod was indicating anything but gold.”

“Isn’t gold sometimes found in the beds of rivers and streams?” asked Willard. “Seems to me your diving-rod would get sort of mixed, wouldn’t it? And how about silver? Can you find silver that way, too?”

McNatt looked almost distressed. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I haven’t devoted any study to the use of the diving-rod in the location of metals. Your questions open up an interesting field, though, and some time I’ll go into the subject thoroughly. And still, as I haven’t yet demonstrated the – ah – power of the instrument in the finding of water, possibly it would be idle to extend the experiments. There’s one possible explanation of failure that just occurs to me. Old Man Hildreth said he used a hazel stick. He didn’t say whether it was the hazel of the nut tribe – ”

“I think it must have been,” said Willard emphatically.

“Or the witch-hazel. The ordinary hazel is a member of the oak family, but does the witch-hazel belong to the same family? There are certain similarities between the two, and yet they may not be botanically related.” McNatt presented a puzzled countenance to Willard. “What would be your opinion?”

“Search me,” said Willard cheerfully. “I thought a hazel was a hazel.”

“I’m afraid not. That may account for my lack of success. You see, I jumped to the conclusion that the witch-hazel was the proper one, probably because the word ‘witch’ suggested – ah – divination. So I may have been wrong.” McNatt’s face cleared and he looked quite cheerful again. “I’ll have to try again. Only – ” He paused and pursed his lips dubiously. “Do you happen to know if the hazel grows about here?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea,” said Willard.

“Nor I. I’ll have to look that up when I get back. It’s strange that the encyclopedias give so little information on the subject of the diving-rod. I wonder – ” McNatt fell silent, and after a minute Willard arose.

“Well, I guess I’ll be getting back,” he announced. It was, he concluded, too late to meet Martin and the others now.

“Back?” repeated McNatt, coming out of his trance. “Yes, that’s so. It must be – ” He searched under the edge of his sweater for something evidently not there. “Have you a watch? I seem to have forgotten mine.”

“Twenty to five,” said Willard.

“Then we’d better start.” McNatt gazed thoughtfully, almost sorrowfully at his witch-hazel stick and laid it gently on the rock. “I may try that again some time, but I rather think I was mistaken; I rather think it should have been the corylus americana.”

“Something nutty sounds more likely,” said Willard gravely. To his surprise, the other chuckled.

“That hadn’t occurred to me,” he replied. “You see, some of the fellows call me McNutt. By the way, what’s your name?”

Willard told him and McNatt nodded. “Harmon: the name’s familiar. I remember now. There is a fellow of that name who plays football. Quite a remarkable full-back, I think.”

“Gordon Harmon? Did you know him?”

“I read about him. He played on one of the high school teams in New York City, I believe. Is he a relation of yours?”

“Brother.”

“Really?” McNatt turned and viewed Willard with real interest. “Well! Think of that! I dare say you’re sort of proud of him.”

“I suppose so,” replied Willard doubtfully. “I don’t think I ever thought whether I am or not,” he added, laughing.

“You should be if what they say of him is true,” said McNatt earnestly. “I followed his work last season with much interest. A natural-born full-back, I’d call him. By the way, do you play, too?”

“A little. I’m out for the team.”

“Full-back? But no, you’d be too light. End, maybe?”

“Half,” said Willard. “I’ve played there some.”

“Hm.” McNatt looked him over critically. “Yes, you might do well there. You look fast. Ten pounds more wouldn’t hurt you, though.”

“You talk like a football chap yourself,” said Willard. “Do you play?”

McNatt shook his head. “I used to, but I got – ah – out of sympathy with it. You see, Harmon, football is capable of being reduced to an exact science, but played in the haphazard manner that they play it here it lacks interest. I haven’t played recently.”

“Well, I don’t see how you can reduce it to any exact science,” Willard objected. “Of course, if you knew beforehand what the other fellow was going to do – ”

“You miss my meaning,” interrupted the older boy. “See here, Harmon. You start with a playing space so many yards in length and so many yards in width. You oppose a team of eleven players with a team of a like number. You may do a certain number of things legitimately. Each situation developed in the course of a football game calls for a certain move. But that’s what coaches and quarter-backs don’t realize. They think that a situation is unprecedented and, instead of making the move that is called for, they confusedly try something they shouldn’t, a play never intended for the situation.”

“But how the dickens are you going to know what play the situation does call for?” demanded Willard. “The situations make themselves, and they’re all different!”