CHAPTER IV.
THE FELLOW WHO REFUSED.
Coached by Dash Winton, a former Dartmouth College player, the OakdaleAcademy football team thus far had not lost a game for the season, andthere was now but one more game to be played, which, however, was theone the boys especially desired to win; for, could they defeat Wyndham,the school that during the past three years had held the countychampionship, they would themselves win the title of champions.
As usual, Wyndham had a strong eleven; so strong, indeed, that inalmost every respect it had wholly outclassed its opponents, thus farnot having been once scored against; therefore, having won some of hercontests by the narrowest possible margin and succeeded only once inblanking the enemy, it was no more than natural that Oakdale shouldfeel more or less apprehension over that deciding battle so soon to befought. Another reason for apprehension lay in the fact that Oakdale’sbattered rush line contained several cripples; but it was likely thatonly the coach and Eliot, the captain, had detected certain alarmingindications that the players were “going stale,” a calamity which theyhad privately discussed. In his heart Winton feared he had driven theyoungsters too hard, when better judgment should have held themsomewhat in restraint for the great battle of the season.
The autumn days had grown so short that there was little time topractice between the closing of the afternoon session at the academyand the coming of nightfall. As soon as possible, on being let out, theboys rushed from the academy to the gymnasium, jumped into harness andhurried onto the field, where they invariably found the coach waiting.Night after night they put in a brief practice game against the scrub,which contained a number of grammar school boys and was strengthened bythe regular substitutes and, usually, by Winton himself.
But even this work had ceased to be properly beneficial, especially indeveloping defensive tactics; for the time had passed when the scrubcould force them to exert themselves to the utmost. Indeed, the onlysubstitutes obtainable were few in numbers and sadly deficient in realfootball qualifications, so that even the least astute knew thatdisqualifying injuries to two or three regular players, occurring inthe game with Wyndham, would be almost certain to weaken the teamhopelessly.
The great desire for reliable substitutes had led Roger Eliot to ask,almost to beg, Rodney Grant to come out for practice. For even thoughGrant might know little about the game, there was a chance for him toacquire some rudimentary knowledge, and, being a strong, lithe,athletic fellow, there was a possibility that he could be used to filla gap at a time of extreme emergency. Eliot’s entreaties, however, hadproved unavailing, the Texan flatly declining to practice, withoutgiving his reasons for the refusal.
This new boy, entering Oakdale in the midst of the autumn term, wherehe appeared unannounced and unacclaimed, had at first seemed to bequiet and retiring to the verge of modesty. Of late, however, beset,almost pestered, by his schoolmates, his manner had undergone adecisive change, and it was not at all remarkable that various ladsbesides Berlin Barker had come to regard him as a braggart.
In the midst of practice on the afternoon of Grant’s feat as a jumper,Hunk Rollins, filling the position of right guard for the regulars,gave his right knee, injured in the last game, a twist that sent himhobbling off the field. There was a pause, in which Eliot consultedWinton concerning a substitute.
“No use to try Springer or Hooker,” said the coach in a low tone.“Neither is fitted for the place. In fact, we haven’t a man.”
Ben Stone, the left guard, an uncomely chap who, nevertheless, hadbecome amazingly popular with the boys, chanced to overhear thesewords. In a moment he joined them.
“Why don’t you ask Grant again, captain?” he suggested. “I don’t knowwhy it is, but I have a notion that he can play the game.”
“Grant?” said Roger in surprise. “I’ve asked him once, and he refused.Where is he?”
“Sitting alone over yonder on the seats,” answered Ben, with a movementof his head. “I saw him come in shortly after we commenced work.”
“Oh, yes,” muttered Roger, perceiving the solitary figure of Rod Grant.“There he is. Confound him! why doesn’t he come forward like a man andget into it? I did my best to induce him.”
“Let me talk to him,” said Winton, starting quickly toward the youngTexan.
Barker, observant, strolled over in the wake of the coach.
Reaching the lower tier of seats, Winton shot a sudden question atRodney Grant:
“Do you know anything about football?”
“Mighty little,” was the surprised answer.
“But you do know something? You’ve played the game, haven’t you?”
“Not much.”
“That’s an admission that you’ve played it some. We need you to fill ahole in the line—just for this practice game, you understand. Come on.”
“I reckon you’ll have to excuse me, sir,” said Grant. “I don’t believeI’ll play football.”
“This isn’t a regular game; it’s practice. You’ve got a littlepatriotism, haven’t you? You’ve got some interest in your school andyour school team, I hope? It won’t hurt you to practice. Come, wehaven’t any time to lose before it gets dark.”
But the boy on the seats shook his head. “I thank you for the invite,but I allow I’d better keep out of it. You’ll certain have to get someone else.”
Barker’s cold, irritating laugh sounded at Winton’s shoulder. “He’safraid! He hasn’t even got sand enough to take part in a practice game.”
“You’re a——”
Rod Grant cut himself short with the third word trembling on his lips.Involuntarily he had started up and was coming down over the seats.
“Say it—say it if you dare!” cried Barker, springing past Winton. “Iwish you would.”
The young Texan faltered on the lowest seat. “Never mind,” he saidslowly. “I judge maybe I’d better keep my tongue between my teeth.”
“You’re right, you had,” Barker flung back, his aggressiveness andinsolence increasing, if possible, with the hesitation of the other.“What are you here for, anyhow? If you haven’t got sand enough even topractice, why do you come out here and sit around watching the rest ofus? You’d better get off the field before some one runs you off.”
Grant stepped down to the ground. “I sure hope nobody will try it,” hemuttered.
By this time Winton had Barker by the shoulder.
“Why are you butting in here?” he exclaimed warmly. “If you would lethim alone, perhaps I’d get him to——”
“Don’t you believe yourself, Mr. Winton. You couldn’t get him to doanything but talk and blow. I’ve been up against this same chap oncebefore to-day, and he knows what I think of him. He’s a white-liveredcoward, that’s what’s the matter with him.”
Again it seemed that the boy from Texas would be taunted beyondendurance, and for a moment he crouched slightly, as if on the verge ofspringing at his insulter.
“Come on,” invited Barker. “You know how many bones there are in thehuman hand, even if you are afraid to examine a skeleton at shortrange. Come on, and I’ll let you feel the bones in my fists.”
These loud words had brought the boys flocking to the spot. Not a fewof them believed for a moment or two, at least, that the impendingfight between Barker and Grant must take place then and there, and,boylike, they welcomed it as a test of the stranger’s courage. Imaginetheir disappointment when Rod Grant dropped his half lifted hands byhis sides and turned away.
“I’ll get off the field,” he muttered huskily. “I’m going, and I hopeMr. Barker will let me alone in future. He’d sure better.”
They watched him depart in the direction of the gate.
“That proves what he is,” said Berlin.
“By jinks, I guess yeou’re right,” acknowledged Sile Crane. “He is acoward.”
“Fellows,” said Ben Stone, “I may be wrong, but I don’t believe herefused to fight because he was afraid.
”
“Perhaps not,” said Winton, shrugging his shoulders; “but I’d like toknow why he refused to practice. Come on, boys, we’ll put some one inRollins’ place and go ahead.”
It was quite dark when Stone, having shed his football togs, left thegymnasium and strode down the street toward the cottage of the WidowJones, where he roomed. As he was passing through the front yard gatesome one called to him, and he saw a figure hurrying toward him. It wasGrant, who came up and stopped with his hand on the fence.
“Stone,” said the Texan, “I heard what you said as I was leaving thefield to-night, and I want to thank you. It’s mighty agreeable to knowthat one fellow, at least, was inclined to stand up for me.”
“Look here, Grant,” said Ben, “I wish you’d tell me why you swallowedBarker’s insults. There must have been a reason.”
“There was; but I can’t tell you—not now, anyhow.”
“Why didn’t you fight him?”
“I—I didn’t want to,” faltered Rod.
“You weren’t afraid, were you?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Yes,” answered Grant in a low tone, “I was afraid.”
“I didn’t think that,” muttered Ben in disappointment.
“I can’t explain it now,” Grant hastened to say. “Sometime Iwill—perhaps. I won’t forget that you stood up for me. I can hear someof the fellows coming. Good night.” He turned sharply, and a momentlater his figure melted into the darkness down the street.
Puzzled and wondering, Stone reached the door of the cottage andstopped there, listening involuntarily to the voices of several fellowshe could see approaching. They were nearly opposite the house when heheard Chipper Cooper laugh loudly and say something about frighteningthe Texan into fits.
“If we can make it work it will be better than a circus,” said thevoice of Fred Sage. “Are you sure you can get the old thing, Sleuth?”
“I’ve a skeleton key that will admit us,” replied Billy Piper.
“Oh, a skeleton key!” chuckled Chipper Cooper, as they passed on.“That’s the kind of a key for this job. Eh, Barker?”
Barker was with them. He said something, but Stone could not understandhis words.
With his hand on the doorknob, Ben stood there speculating. “They’reputting up some sort of a job on Grant,” he murmured. “I wonder whatthey mean to do?”
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