Right End Emerson

That proved the result that Alton had sought. From the thirty-five yards to the twenty she went in four rushes. There she was slowed up and a short forward pass, Browne to McLeod, was used as a last resort and did the business. After that, with a small coterie of devoted Altonians begging for a touchdown, the result was not long in doubt. Still smarting over her indignities, Alton hammered and thrust, and, reaching the six yards in two downs, hurled Moncks past left tackle for half the remaining distance and then literally piled through the center of the Lorimer line and deposited Appel and the ball well over the last mark.

Unfortunately, Mart Proctor missed the goal miserably, and the handful of Alton supporters groaned. Lorimer was still one point ahead and the time was getting short. Captain Proctor gave way to Butler and Linthicum went in for Browne. During the remaining minutes several more changes were made in the Alton line-up, so that when the last whistle blew the Gray-and-Gold presented a thoroughly second-string appearance.

Lorimer fought for time now, fought to keep the opponent away from scoring territory, punting even on first down and against that breeze. But she didn’t have many chances to put boot leather to pigskin, for Alton was through with the kicking game. Lorimer was beatable by surer methods, and Alton returned to rushing. Twice her backs got almost free around the Lorimer ends and once Linthicum found a barn-door opening in the center and staggered through for twelve yards. With the time-keeper’s watch showing something less than two minutes left, the ball was Alton’s on the home team’s thirty-six. Appel held a whispered conference with Rowlandson, who had succeeded to the captaincy, and then sprung a surprise. Linthicum was sent back to kicking position and, since a field-goal would win the game for Alton, Lorimer never doubted that, with the time nearly up, a drop-kick would follow. But Jimmy Austen got the ball when it left center and Jimmy found as many holes in front of him as there are in a sieve and proceeded to ooze through one of them. And, being through, he kept right on oozing, just how no one, least of all Jimmy, could have afterwards told. But he oozed faster and faster. In fact, the ooze became a trickle and then a spurt, and, escaping a tackle here and dodging an enemy there, turning, twisting, as elusive as a drop of quicksilver, Jimmy somehow kept going straight for the goal and somehow got there, got there without having been once tackled, got there through the whole enemy team and with never a bit of aid from his own side! And, having got there, Jimmy put the ball down, hunched his shoulders and philosophically and even smilingly bore the useless onslaught of the infuriated enemy.

It didn’t matter that Rowlandson missed the goal. No one expected him to make it, certainly not Rowlandson, for he was no goal expert and, as he put it, became the goat only for lack of some one better qualified. He managed to send the ball between the posts, but only because the line of discouraged opponents hadn’t enough interest left to put up a hand and stop it!

There was one more kick-off and four more plays, and then the game was over. Every fellow loves a hero, and so, for quite a week, Jimmy Austen wore the laurels. And doubtless he deserved them, although, as Jimmy explained often enough during the next forty-eight hours, no one but a cripple could have failed to make that touchdown! “Their old line was full of holes,” said Jimmy. “They were all set for a try-at-goal and came pouring through as soon as the ball was off. All I had to do was hug the old turnip and let ’em by. Then I side-stepped a couple and took it across. There’s no sense in making a fuss about it!”

But they did – for a while. In football there’s a new hero, of larger or smaller caliber, every week or so, and Jimmy’s fame only lived until the Hillsport game the following Saturday, when Ned Richards sprinted sixty-odd yards for the score that evened up matters in the third period and turned what looked horribly like defeat into a 6 to 6 tie.

CHAPTER XV

MR. CROCKER CALLS

Russell didn’t see the Loring game, although there was no second team practice that afternoon to prevent. Instead he took Stick’s place in the store, allowing that youth to put in an afternoon at tennis, the only kind of physical exertion he approved of. Russell was glad that he had done this long before closing time arrived, for he spent a very busy time at the Sign of the Football. There was one heart-stirring quarter of an hour when, by actual count, seven customers lined the counter! Russell surreptitiously counted the throng a second time, incredulously certain that he had overestimated. Even femininity invaded the store when two high school girls came in search of sweaters. Russell, always shy in the presence of the opposite sex, was all thumbs when it came to displaying his wares and, for the first time, wished that he had not relieved Stick. Stick wouldn’t be disturbed in the least by the whole female population of Alton! Nothing, pursued Russell in his thoughts, as he clumsily brought a pile of boxes crashing down on his head, ever did disturb Stick much except an attack on his pocketbook.

The two young ladies were extremely self-possessed and viewed Russell’s embarrassment with a sort of kindly contempt. The boy’s first hopeful announcement that they carried no girls’ sweaters failed of the effect he desired. They did not, they explained calmly, want girls’ sweaters, but boys’ sweaters. After that there was nothing for it but to display wares, falteringly explain why the garments were priced half a dollar higher than similar garments purchased by the fair customers in New Haven two years before and resist a horrible temptation to wipe the perspiration from his brow. Russell heaped the counter high with boxes – some of them, of course, empty – and got very much mixed in the matter of sizes and prices. In the end, when the shoppers severely declared that they would take two of the sweaters but couldn’t think of paying the price set for them, Russell weakly but, oh, so gladly knocked off a quarter of a dollar, almost frantically wrapped the parcels up, overlooked a discrepancy of a nickel in one payment, and, had not courtesy forbade, would have joyously pushed them out the door.

When they were at last gone, he wiped his forehead, sighed deeply with heartfelt relief and wondered if it would not be a good idea to hang a card in the window with some such inscription on it as “Gentlemen Only” or “No Females Need Apply”! After that he sold a pair of woolen hose to an Alton chap and two tennis balls to a tall bespectacled gentleman who, Russell suspected, was the “Painless Dentist” further down the street. The hour for closing was nearing and Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer, who had been leaning in a sort of trance over his books in the wire cage since four o’clock, moved and sighed loudly. Then followed business of locking a drawer with much jangling of keys, the clanging of the cage door and the florist set his hat on his head, looked dubiously at the single light in the further window – Mr. Pulsifer never lighted his window – took three boxes from the glass-fronted case at the back of the store and passed out with a dismal “good night.” Those three boxes, which, Russell concluded, Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer was going to deliver in person, appeared to constitute the day’s business of the florist’s establishment. Russell wondered whether it was possible that the dejected gentleman made money over his expenses. It didn’t seem that he could, for the few orders that came to him surely did amount to more than thirty dollars a week. Russell’s thoughts were still on Mr. Pulsifer when the doorway was darkened by a large, thickset man in a suit of black and a wide-brimmed felt hat of the same color. When he came into the light from the window Russell recognized him.

“Good evening, Mr. Crocker,” he said politely.

Mr. Crocker replied affably and then looked curiously about him. “Your name’s Emerson, I take it,” he said finally. “Nice little establishment you’ve got here.”

Russell agreed, although he saw quite plainly that the visitor didn’t think it a nice little establishment at all, that, on the contrary, he had viewed it rather contemptuously.

“Thought,” continued the hardware merchant, “I’d stop in and have a word or two with you.”

“Very kind, I’m sure,” murmured Russell.

“Well, I’m an old hand at the selling game, Mr. Emerson, and I’ve learned one or two things you haven’t – yet. You’re young and, I guess you won’t mind my saying so, inexperienced.”

“Not in the least, sir.”

“Exactly,” pursued the other, interpreting the boy’s reply to suit himself. “Now I’m always glad to help young fellows like you who are just starting out for themselves. I’ve done it many times. Us older men mustn’t forget that we owe a duty to youth and inexperience. That’s why I dropped in, Mr. Emerson.” Mr. Crocker had thrust his hands into the pockets of a pair of capacious trousers and was observing Russell smilingly across the counter. “Now you and I are in the same line of business, partly. That is, you sell athletic supplies and so do I. Of course, it’s a small part of my business, but I’m not hankering to lose it. Not,” added Mr. Crocker, quickly, “that there’s any danger of that. I’ve always welcomed competition, Mr. Emerson. There’s plenty of trade here for you and me both if we handle it right.”

“I hope so,” affirmed Russell.

“Yes, but cutting prices isn’t going to get us anywhere.” Mr. Crocker smiled almost playfully. His was a leather-grained, deeply-furrowed countenance, and that arch smile looked extremely out of place. “No, sir.” He shook his head gently but emphatically. “No, sir, my young friend, cutting prices is bad for us. You cut and I cut and what’s left? Neither of us is making a profit. I’m not in business for pleasure, and neither are you, I take it. Now, the best thing for both of us is to come to a sort of friendly agreement. As I said before, there’s trade enough for us both, and there’s no sense in throwing away our profits. That’s sense, isn’t it?”

“Perfect sense, Mr. Crocker. But I haven’t been throwing away my profits, so far as I know, sir.”

“You’ve been selling goods ten, fifteen, twenty per cent under the usual local prices,” replied Mr. Crocker firmly. “I manage to keep tabs on what’s going on around me, my friend.”

“I’ve been selling goods at prices that bring me a fair profit, Mr. Crocker, a profit that I’m satisfied with. Of course, it costs me less to do business than it costs you, sir, but that’s nothing for me to worry about.”

The hardware man looked searchingly at Russell and stiffened. “You’ve been cutting prices to get my trade, young man,” he announced severely. “I’m here to tell you it’s got to stop. I came in here like a friend, but I’m going out an enemy if you persist in taking that tone with me. Don’t think I’ll let you get my business away from me, sir, because I won’t. It’s been tried before.” Mr. Crocker’s face hardened and his voice was grim. “Four years ago a fellow opened up right over there, where Whitson is now. He lasted eight months. Then the sheriff sold him out. There’s been others, too. You take my advice and think it over. Why” – Mr. Crocker’s gaze traveled disparagingly over the shelves and the little show-case – “why, you haven’t enough stock here to run three weeks if you were getting any business.”

“In that case, why worry, sir?” asked Russell.

“Oh, I’m not worrying! That’s up to you.” Mr. Crocker smiled again, but the smile was more like a snarl. “You think it over. That’s my advice to you. You think it over and then drop around to see me about Monday. There’s no reason why you and I shouldn’t come to an agreement on prices, Mr. Emerson. I’m willing to come down a little here and there. I’ll be fair. We can fix it so’s you’ll make a bigger profit than you’re making now – if you’re making any; which I doubt – and won’t lose any of your trade. If you don’t decide to be reasonable, why, you’d better look for another line of business!”

Mr. Crocker settled his hat more squarely on his head, nodded curtly and went out. When he had gone Russell put out the lights and locked the door, all very thoughtfully. The thoughtfulness continued while he strode quickly to State street and thence made his way to the Green and to Upton Hall. In Number 27 he recounted briefly to Stick the conversation with Mr. Crocker. Stick was fairly aghast.

“I knew something rotten would happen,” he groaned. “I knew the luck was too good to hold. Well, I guess there’s only one thing to do.”

“That’s all I see,” agreed Russell as he hurriedly prepared for supper.

“And maybe,” went on Stick, a wee bit more hopefully, “he’s right, Rus. Maybe we’ll do just as well if we charge a little more for things. I suppose it is rather cheeky for us to open up almost next door to the old codger and try to undersell him. In a way, it was fairly decent of him to give us a warning, wasn’t it?”

“Well, perhaps. But wasn’t it sort of a confession of weakness, Stick?”

“I don’t get you.”

“Why, if he really thinks he can put us out of business, why should he come and offer us a part of the trade? Why not take it all?”

“I suppose he wanted to be fair,” answered Stick, doubtfully. Then he started and shot an anxious look at his companion. “Look here, Rus,” he exclaimed, “you’re – you’re not thinking of acting the fool!”

“Hope not. Depends on what you mean by acting the fool.”

“I mean you’re not going to try to buck him, are you?”

“I guess you could call it that,” answered Russell easily. “At least, I don’t propose to let Crocker or any one else come and tell me – ”

“But you can’t do that!” wailed Stick. “I’m as much interested in that store as you are – almost, and – and I won’t have it! We can’t afford to make an enemy of that fellow, Rus. He’ll do just as he told you and we’ll be broke in a month. There’s no use in being stubborn. Of course, it isn’t pleasant to have him dictating to us, but he’s got the whip-hand, now hasn’t he?”

“He may have, but I doubt it.” Russell gave a final pat to his tie and glanced at the little clock on his chiffonier. “Come on and let’s eat, Stick. We can talk about this later.”

Stick, however, chose to talk about it all the way to Lawrence and would have talked about it during supper had Russell given him an opportunity. But Russell dived into general conversation and left his partner to silent and moody meditation. Stick was so thoroughly alarmed that he ate almost nothing; and Stick’s appetite was normally something to be proud of. Afterwards the subject was returned to and the two came nearer to a quarrel than they ever had before. Only the fact that Russell refused to get angry prevented it. Stick pleaded and begged, argued and, at length, commanded, but Russell was not to be moved.

“We agreed,” he said firmly, “that, as I had put more money into this than you had, I was to have the say in such matters as this. And I’ve thought it over carefully, Stick, and I mean to go right on as we’ve been going. Look here, now. Suppose we agreed to Crocker’s plan. We make an agreement with him not to sell goods below a certain price. He had all the trade before and he will have it all again. He says there is business enough for both of us. That listens well, but it isn’t true. Our only chance of making good lies in getting a whole lot of trade away from him if we can do it. And we’re doing it. And that’s what’s worrying him. He’s been selling things at a big profit, just as though the War hadn’t ever stopped, and there’s been no one to interfere with it. Now we come along and put a fair price on our goods and, of course, we’re getting customers away from him. Every day some one comes in and says, ‘Why, Crocker asks fifty cents more than that,’ or sixty cents, or whatever it may be. He realizes that he’s either got to scare us into an agreement on prices or lower his own prices; yes, and put better goods in stock, too! He hates to get less than he’s been getting, and so he tries to frighten us. Well, he can’t do it. We don’t frighten. As for driving us away, why, he will find that we’re hard to drive, Stick. He simply can’t do it.”

“That’s all well enough to say,” replied Stick desperately, “but how do you know he can’t? Suppose he lowers his prices below ours? Then what happens? Why, folks go to him, of course, and we sit and whistle. And then the rent comes due and a lot of bills come piling in and – bingo! good-by, Football!”

“Crocker will have to cut a lot below our prices, Stick, to get any trade away from us. In the first place, we sell better stuff. You know that yourself. Then we treat customers a heap better, and we know our stock. But, if we do begin to slip, we’ll cut prices, too. We can play that game just as well as he can.”

“No, we can’t! He’s got all sorts of other goods to sell, and we haven’t. He could run his sporting goods department at a loss for months and not have to worry!”

“He would worry, just the same,” said Russell, smiling. “I know Crocker’s sort. He’d worry if a clerk sold a five cent screwdriver at less than ten! But never mind that. Those P. and F. folks are after business, Stick. They’re making a hard drive to introduce their goods here in the east, and, I think, they’re having difficulty. The other folks are fighting them for every inch. Now if I run over to New York and tell them that Crocker is cutting prices on rival goods they’ll stand back of us, I’ll bet. They’ll sell to us at prices that’ll let us meet Crocker and go him one better.”

“That’s what you think,” sneered Stick. “You always think what you want to think, Rus. That’s your trouble. You’re too blamed optimistic. I’d rather hear the P. and F. folks say so before I banked on it!”

“They’ll say so when the time comes,” replied Russell cheerfully. “But I don’t believe it will come.”

“I know you don’t,” said Stick disgustedly. “But I do! All right, go ahead in your own stubborn, silly-ass way and ruin us! I’ve said all I have to say. Except this. I wish to goodness I’d never gone into this fool thing, and if I could get out of it – ”

“We’re making pretty fair profits now, Stick,” returned Russell quietly, “and maybe, later, we can arrange it.”

“Huh!” snorted Stick. “Later! By that time there won’t be anything left to arrange!”

CHAPTER XVI

ALTON SQUEEZES THROUGH

It was after the Hillsport game that the slump began. The first team seemed to fairly droop under the shock of that unexpected reverse; for to be played to a tie by that opponent was virtually no less than a defeat. Last year, even on Hillsport’s own field, Alton had easily beaten the other by 14 to 0, and for years past Hillsport had gone down in defeat, often ingloriously. On this regrettable occasion, however, the enemy had honestly earned her touchdown by outrushing Alton all through the first two periods and, finally, by old-fashioned smashing tactics, pushing across for a score. Had Hillsport possessed a more adept goal-kicker she might have departed with a victory. Ned Richards’ scurry down the field for Alton’s touchdown in the last moments of the third period had been a splendid piece of individual brilliancy, and it had, in a measure, saved the day for the Gray-and-Gold, but there was no blinking the fact that all of Alton’s efforts to gain through the Hillsport line had failed and that against a heavy, fast-working, clever team the Gray-and-Gold had showed up rather miserably. All this, realized by the onlookers, had not been lost on the players themselves, and the effect of the knowledge seemed to be paralyzing. The team promptly passed into what Captain Mart feelingly termed a “forty below” slump. Coach Cade sweated and scolded and planned and pleaded, and all through the following week the second pushed and tossed the big team about the gridiron with an amazing lack of respect. The second, awaking to the evident fact that the opponent was not, after all, invulnerable, took revenge for past abuse and aspersion and bullied and maltreated the first eleven brutally. In this reprehensible course they were aided and abetted, nay, even encouraged, by one Steve Gaston. Steve had no mercy, or, at least, showed none. The second jestingly referred to the daily scrimmage as the “massacre.” “Come on,” Captain Falls would blithely call. “Let’s go over and finish ’em up, second!” Now all this was fine for the morale of the second, as was speedily proved. Success, instead of spoiling them, improved them. It welded them more firmly together just as, doubtless, a successful sortie by the Robber Barons of the Rhine in the old days produced an increased esprit de corps. Probably a career of crime, such as the second was now following, is like that. Anyhow, Steve Gaston secretly rejoiced as he incited his desperadoes to greater atrocities.

The first didn’t take their drubbings meekly, you may be sure, but they took them. They took them three times that week. They almost cried at some of the indignities put upon them by an awakened and merciless scrub, and they fought back desperately and staged many “come backs” that never developed, and the School, attracted by the novel, well-nigh incredible spectacle of a first team being baited and beaten by a second, flocked to the field of an afternoon as for a Roman holiday. They didn’t always see the helpless victim devoured by the ravening lion, for twice the victim forgot his rôle and held the lion at bay, and once – that was Friday – even sent him cringing back to his lair, defeated! But in any case the spectators got their money’s worth in thrills.

It would be nice to be able to say that Russell was the bright particular star of the second, but he wasn’t anything of the sort. Russell didn’t aspire to be a star, and maybe he couldn’t have been, anyway. Besides, Steve Gaston didn’t hold with stars. He discouraged them as soon as they lifted their heads into sight. His idea of a good football team was one in which eleven men acted as one man and in which none stood out above his fellows. Steve’s slogan was “Fight!”

“I don’t care,” he would say, “how much football a fellow knows if he won’t fight. He’s no use on this team. Football’s fighting, from first to last. Keep that in mind. The fellow who fights hardest wins. Fight fair, but fight. Some of you chaps act as if you thought you were in this to let the first slap your face and get away with it. You’re not, by gumbo! You want to forget that the first team fellows are members of the same frat! They’re your enemies from the moment the whistle blows, and your business is to everlastingly whale ’em. Beat the tar out of ’em! Knock the spots off ’em! That’s football. That’s the game. The harder you use those fellows, the harder they’ll use Kenly. Paste that in your helmet!”

Russell took Steve’s earnest commands with a grain of salt; wherein he was wrong, for Steve meant all he said. Russell liked football and liked to play it hard, just as he liked to do anything else he attempted, but he retained all through that unprecedented week a sneaking sympathy for the first. Probably others of his mates did also, even if they dissembled the fact most successfully. Russell made his mistake in not thoroughly dissembling, which is why there was a knock on his door that Friday evening and Coach Gaston entered.

As was his way, Steve got to business at once. “I’ve been watching you playing pretty closely this last week, Emerson,” he began, settling into a chair, “and I’m curious. Thought I’d come around and have a little talk with you. Now, suppose you tell me, first off, just what you think the matter is.”

“Matter?” echoed Russell. “What is the matter?”

“You tell me,” answered the coach. “I’ve seen fellows who could play and fellows who couldn’t play – a lot more of the last kind than the first, you bet! – but it’s sort of out of the ordinary to find a fellow who can play and doesn’t. Must be a reason, of course, so I thought I’d ask you.”

Russell looked every bit as puzzled as he felt. “But I don’t get you, Gaston. Are you – do you mean me?”

Gaston nodded. “Of course. You’re the man. If it’s a private matter, Emerson, and you’d rather not let me in on it – ”

“But I am playing, Gaston! I don’t understand what you mean!”

“Yes, you’re playing, and I guess that’s the trouble. Maybe some one’s clipped your claws, eh?”

Russell couldn’t have said whether Gaston’s tone had been sneering or not, but he flushed as he answered warmly: “If you mean that I’m not trying my hardest and doing my best – ”