CHAPTER VII
WITH THE AWKWARD SQUAD
"Sure! That's all right," said Joe Dobbins. "If I want to dig I can trotover to the library or somewhere. Seven to nine, you said?"
"Yes, but it won't be for very long, I guess: maybe only a couple ofweeks. Merriman seemed an awfully clever sort of a chap."
"Must be if he can teach Latin! I never did see the good of that stuff,anyway." Joe fluttered the pages of the book he had been studying.After a moment he said: "Say, Foster, you're a sort of sartorialauthority--how's that for language, eh?--and you know what's what in theline of clothes, I guess. Now I wish you'd tell me honestly if there'sanything wrong with the things I wear. They look all right to me, but Inotice two or three of the fellows sort of piping 'em off like they werewondering about 'em. What's wrong with the duds?" And Joe glanced overthe grey suit, with the large green and blue threads running through it,that he was wearing.
"Why, they----" But Myron paused. Three days before he would not havehesitated to render a frank opinion of the clothes; would have welcomedthe opportunity, in fact: but this afternoon he found that he didn'twant to hurt Joe's feelings.
"Spit it out, kiddo--I mean Foster! Let's know the worst."
"Well, I suppose they're good material and well made, Dobbins, but thefact is they--they're different, if you see what I mean."
"I don't. What _do_ you mean, just? Style all wrong by Fifth Avenuestandards?"
"By any standard," replied Myron firmly. "They look ready-made."
"But, gee, they _are_ ready-made! I never had a suit made to order in mylife. Why should I? I'm not hump-backed or--or got one leg longer thanthe other!"
"Some ready-made clothes don't look it, though," explained Myron. "Yoursdo. Did you get them in Portland?"
"Sure. We've got some dandy stores in Portland."
"Did that suit come from the best one?" asked Myron drily.
"N-no, it didn't, to tell the hideous truth." Joe chuckled. "You see,the old man has a friend who runs a store and we've both got sort ofused to dealing with this guy. He's a pretty square sort, too; a Canuck.Peter Lafavour's his name. But I guess maybe Peter doesn't know so muchabout style as he makes out to, eh? I always sort of liked these duds,though: they're sort of--er--snappy, eh?"
Myron smiled. "They're too snappy, Dobbins. That's one out with them.Then they don't fit anywhere. And they look cheap and badly cut."
"Aside from that they're all right, though?" asked Joe hopefully.
"Perhaps, although gentlemen aren't wearing pockets put on at an angleor cuffs on the sleeves."
"And Peter swore that this suit was right as rain!" sighed Joe. "Ain'the the swine? How about my other one?"
"Well, it's better cut and hasn't so many queer folderols," answeredMyron, "but it looks a good deal like a grain-sack when you get it on,old man."
"What do you know about that!" Joe shook his head dismally, but Myroncaught the irrepressible twinkle in his room-mate's eyes. "Guess I'llhave to dig down in the old sock and buy me a new outfit," he continued."I suppose those tony-looking duds you wear were made to order, eh?Think your tailor could make me a suit if I wrote and told him what sizecollar I wear?"
"I'm afraid not, but I saw a tailor shop in the village here today thatlooked pretty good. Why not try there?"
"Blamed if I don't, kid--Foster! I don't suppose you'd want to go alongwith me and see that I get what's right? I'd hate to find I had too manybuttons on my vest--I mean waistcoat--when the things were done!"
"I don't mind," answered Myron after an imperceptible moment ofhesitation, "although you really won't need me if the chap knows hisbusiness. No first-class tailor will turn you out anything that isn'tcorrect."
"Yeah, but--well, I'd feel easier in my mind if I had you along. Maybetomorrow, eh? Somehow these duds I've got on don't make such a hitwith me as they did! Coming over to the gym? It's mighty near time forpractice."
"In a minute," answered Myron carelessly. "You run along." Then hereflected that if he was to go with Joe to the tailor's the next day hemight just as well start in now and get used to being seen with him."Guess I'm ready, though," he corrected. "Come on."
The distance from Sohmer to the gym was only a matter of yards, and itwasn't until the two reached the entrance of the latter building thatthey encountered any one. Then, or so Myron imagined, the three fellowswho followed them through the big oak door looked curiously from Joe'sastounding attire to his own perfectly correct grey flannels. He wasglad when the twilight of the corridor was reached, and all the waydown the stairs to the locker-room below he was careful to avoid allsuggestions of intimacy with Joe.
Football was still in the first rather chaotic phase. An unusually largenumber of candidates had reported this fall, and, while in theory itwas a fine thing to have so much material to select from, in reality itincreased the work to be done tremendously. On the second day of schoolone hundred and twelve boys of all sizes and ages and all degrees ofinexperience were on hand, and coach, captain and trainer viewed thegathering helplessly. Today a handful of the original number had droppedout of their own accord, but there were still nearly a hundred left, andwhen Myron, having changed to his togs, followed the dribble of latearrivals to the field he wondered what on earth would be done with themall. Perhaps Coach Driscoll was wondering the same thing, for therewas a perplexed frown on his face as he talked with Billy Goode andcontemplatively trickled a football from one hand to the other.
Myron rather liked the looks of Mr. Driscoll. So far he had not evenspoken to the coach and doubted if the latter so much as knew of hisexistence, but there was something in the coach's face and voice andquick, decisive movements that told Myron that he knew his business."Tod" Driscoll was about thirty, perhaps a year or two more, and hadcoached at Parkinson for several seasons. He was a Parkinson graduate,but his football reputation had been made at Yale. He was immenselypopular with the students, although he made no effort to gain popularityand was the strictest kind of a disciplinarian. Today, while Myron,pausing at the edge of the crowded gridiron a few yards distant, viewedhim and speculated about him, the coach showed rather less decision thanusual, for twice he gave instructions, once to Billy and once to themanager, and each time changed his mind.
"We've got to find more instructors," Myron heard him say a trifleimpatiently. "How about you, Ken? Know enough football to take a bunchof those beginners over to the second team gridiron?"
"I'm afraid not, Coach," answered Kenneth Farnsworth.
"You don't need to know much. What do you say, Billy? Who is there? I'vegot most of the veterans at work already, and there isn't one of themthat shouldn't be learning instead of teaching."
Myron didn't hear the trainer's reply, for at that moment a well-built,light-haired, somewhat harassed youth of apparently nineteen strodeup to the group. "Look here, Coach," he began before he was wellwithin talking distance, "what about the backs? We've got to have someget-together work before Saturday's game, haven't we? Cater says you'vegot him in charge of a kindergarten class, Brown's sewed up the sameway, Garrison hasn't shown up----"
"I know, Cap. But what are we going to do with this raft of talent?Some one's got to take hold of them, and I can't take more than twenty.Cummins is about ready to go on strike----"
"It _is_ a mess, isn't it?" Captain Mellen turned and viewed the scenepuzzledly. "The worst of it is that there probably aren't a dozen in thewhole lot worth troubling with."
"True, but we've got to find the dozen," answered Mr. Driscoll."We can't afford to miss any bets this year, Cap. We'll call thefirst-choice backs together at four. That'll give us half an hour forkindergarten stuff. But I want a couple more fellows to take hold. Whoare they?"
"Search me! Why not double them up, sir?"
"They've been doubled up--or pretty nearly. Cummins has about thirty tolook after and Cater twenty-four or five. That's too many. Sixteen'senough for a squad. How about Garrison?"
"He isn't here. I don't know what----"
"He's cut," interposed Farnsworth. "Got a conference at four."
"Conference! Gee, why couldn't he have that some other time?" asked JudMellen.
"Time to start, sir," said Farnsworth, looking at his watch.
"All right, let's get at it. But I wish I could think--Who's that fellowthere, Mellen?" Mr. Driscoll dropped his voice. Mellen turned and lookedat Myron and shook his head.
"I don't know him, Coach. Who is he, Ken?"
"I think"--Farnsworth turned the pages of his book until he had foundthe F's--"I think his name is Forrest. No, Foster. High school fellow.Two years playing. Passed a corking physical exam."
"Foster!"
Myron, who had been aware that he was under discussion, joined thegroup. "Yes, sir?" he asked.
"Think you could take about twenty fellows over to the next field andshow them how to handle the ball? You know the sort of stuff, don't you?Passing, falling, starting and so on. Want to try it?"
"Yes, sir, I can do it all right."
"Good! We've got such a mob here today that we're short-handed. Stick tome a minute and I'll round you up a bunch."
"You can't call him exactly modest, can you?" asked the manager of BillyGoode when the others had walked away. "'I can do it all right,' sayshe."
"How do you know he can't?" asked Billy. "And if he can there ain't anyharm in his saying so, is there? Say, if I was starting my life overagain, my friend, I'd say yes to everything like that any one asked me.I missed a lot of good chances by being too modest."
"And truthful?" laughed Kenneth.
"Let it go at modest," said Billy smiling.
Myron received eighteen boys as his portion and led them across to thesecond team gridiron and set to work. Four other awkward squads adornedthe field, the nearer one being under the care of Charles Cummins. Myronsmiled secretly when he saw the surprised stare with which Cumminsregarded him. When their glances met Cummins nodded shortly. To puthis class through the third lesson was no trick for Myron, but it wasdreary and tiresome work. It seemed to him that Coach Driscoll must havedeliberately apportioned to him the stupidest boys on the field, for ofall the awkward squads Myron had ever had anything to do with his wasthe awkwardest. But some few presently began to respond to treatmentand by the time they were jumping out of the line and digging kneesand elbows and shoulders into the turf in the effort to land on thetrickling pigskin he felt that he hadn't done so badly with them. Hedidn't say much to them, for his own experience had shown him that toomuch instruction and criticism only confused the pupil, and neither didhe try to impress them with their stupidity. As a result, most of themeventually forgot to be self-conscious and tried to follow instructions.Watching, Myron heard a voice at his elbow and looked around into theface of Cummins, who, giving his own charges a moment of rest, hadwalked across unnoticed.
"How do _you_ like it?" Cummins inquired shortly.
"There are other things I'd rather be doing," replied Myron. He didn'tfeel particularly friendly toward this chap who had badgered him so aday or two before, and his tone showed it. A smile flickered around thecorners of Cummins' mouth.
"Main thing," he said gravely, "is to be patient with them. I find thatpays best."
Myron turned and looked at him wonderingly. "That sounds well," hereplied sarcastically. Cummins grinned.
"Got it in for me, haven't you?" he said. "Don't blame you--er--WhateverYour Name Is. I was never cut out for a teacher. Besides, I want to getto work myself. What's your line? Tackle?"
"I don't know. Whatever I get, I suppose. Try that again, you chap. Getstarted quicker. I played half-back last year."
"Guard's my game. Well, I guess I'd better go back and hound thosefellows some more. See you again, Foster, if I live."
Myron wondered why Cummins had pretended not to recall his name atfirst. "Just to be as disagreeable as possible, I guess," he concluded.Cummins' hectoring voice floated across the field just then: "All right,my hearties! Line up again and, for the love of limes, look intelligentif you can't act so!"
Ten minutes later the awkward squads were called to the bench and Myronwent to work on Squad D or E, he didn't know which it was, and trottedaround the field behind a shrill-voiced quarterback, practising ahandful of elementary plays that he already knew by heart. He wonderedhow long it would be before some one in authority discovered that theywere wasting the time of a first-class half-back!