# Up the Street/Chapter 7
### VII.

When the new subway brought him to Harvard Square, Hector, adroitly avoiding an old professor who was always relocating Attic puns, hired a taxicab to the Stadium. It gave him a thrill of pleasure to note that the chauffeur took him for a freshman, and tried to overcharge him. The day was consecrated to secret practice, but the ground-keeper recognized Hector with a toothless grin, and passed him through the grilled gates.
"O Lord!" yelled Billy Gordon, coaching the ends. "Oh, I'm glad to see you, Bull! Say—look at that gang of candidates, will you? Isn't that a gallant brigade—especially him?"
"Him" was a six-foot neophyte weighing a hundred and fifty-five.
"Go to it!" said Gordon, slapping his old friend on the back. "He's your star man, Bull. He knows more ways to drop a ball than the next worst seven on the squad—he's kept on because he's the only one who can keep his feet. There's Prince—have you seen him yet?" He turned to his baker's dozen of ends with an attempt at heartiness. "Come on! On your toes! Everybody down under this one—kick 'em higher there, will you?"
Hector, very scholarly and dignified in tortoise-rimmed glasses, threaded his way across the field among small, personally conducted squads of linemen driven aimlessly about by officious fourth and fifth-string quarter backs. He found the head coach berating a substitute tackle for having been born top-heavy.
"Hello, Prince!" said Blanding.
Prince turned in a flash.
"Bull! Gad, I'm glad to see you, man! When can you start in? To-day? That's great! You can have the backs—I don't care how much murder and sudden death you hand 'em!" He came dose to Hector's side, and spoke into his ear. "They're hideous!" he said distinctly. "Honest, Bull, I don't know what's going to happen to us. You ought to have seen 'em against Amherst—the line punched holes big enough for a ten-ton truck, and they fell over their own feet! They missed tackles they dropped kicks. For the love of Mike, Bull, can you put any ginger into a half-baked, half-witted crowd of dubs?"
Hector drew off his coat and waistcoat; folded his spectacles into a silver case, and shoved them into a pocket.
"Got a cigar?" he inquired. Then, more incisively: "Where's my squad?"
"Down in the bowl," said Prince. "And say, Bull—we sent for you as a last resort—you're in full charge."
"I knew that before I started," said Blanding.
The back field candidates, apathetically passing balls around the lower end of the Stadium, saw the heroic figure of the Olympian break away from the little group at midfield, and come toward them. They saw what Eleanor had never seen—a shirt-sleeved young cynic, with a cigar in his mouth; a man whose eyes were bright and piercing; whose gait was a cross between an amble and a swagger; whose nostrils quivered as in the presence of a noisome pestilence. He beckoned; the squad of twenty closed around him.
"Boys," he said softly, "who was it—the G. A. R. or the Old Ladies' Home?"
No one answered; in the background an overgrown full back coughed loudly.
"I came up to show you fellows how to play football," said Hector around his cigar. "And mind you, I don't know the first thing about marbles or pinochle. Understand? Football! You've got a few weeks—how many of you are there. Twenty? Maybe I'll have to kill off about a dozen—that'll leave two sets of backs. Anybody want to quit? No? I hear you can't tackle unless the man's standing still. Come over here and show me how you hit the dummy. Hold on! Don't anybody make that mistake so early! When I say 'Come on,' I mean jump. Do you get it? Come on!"
Twenty minutes later, the first and second teams lined up. Blanding, collarless now, and damp with perspiration, trailed the varsity step by step.
"Come on, come on! Get in there fast, man! Oh, kiss him on the brow and be done with it! Think he'll get out of the way if you look at him? Right half—what's your name? Holden? Come here, Holden—hump? Look here, boy, that's rotten! Your job is to put your man out of the play. Next time, put him out! Come on—hurry up, hurry up!"
The varsity, after a mighty advance of four yards in four downs, paused, panting, and prepared for the defensive. Hector, flinging his cigar to the ground, went to Prince.
"Oh, Prince! I want the varsity to keep the ball."
"Take the whole shooting match if you want it."
"Varsity keeps the ball!" snapped Blanding, trotting back to his position. "Come over here, quarter—hurry up. Come here, Holden. Quarter, I want you to give this man Holden the ball until he makes a touchdown, or I take him out. See? Give 'em all the variety you can, but I want to see Holden lose his breath just once. All right. Hurry up!"
The half back Holden glanced dubiously at the goal line, sixty yards away. Quarter bent over the heaving line of dripping figures. Pandemonium broke out behind them from the coaches, led by Prince and Blanding.
"Keep your feet, Holden! Hold your feet!"
"Low—lower than that!"
"Put him down—block your man out there!"
"You gained two yards," said Hector icily, dragging Holden to his feet. "Remember this, young man—four times two yards isn't a first down. You've got to make three yards or more every time you start. Signal! Hurry up."
Again the luckless Holden flung his inefficient weight at center.
"Rotten—oh, rotten!"
"What are you doing, King—dreaming?"
"I told you to charge—didn't you get it?"
"I told you low!"
"Afraid of hurting yourself, Holden?"
The rush line bent low. Holden, taking the pass, stumbled, fell, and dropped the ball. A scrub guard instantly recovered it. Hector spread his hands in token of great wonder, and averted his face.
"All through, Holden," he said. "Go in."
"What?"
"Back to the locker building. Who's first sub here?"
The new man gained a yard, lost three, gained a yard and a half. The scrub line, diagnosing the attack, broke through and threw him for a ten-yard loss on the fourth play.
"Get up!" shouted Hector. "Hurry up! What's the next play? Speed it up! What's this—a funeral procession? D'you write your signals on a piece of paper, or learn 'em by heart? Next play—fast!"
The new half back fumbled the ball. Hector jerked his thumb toward the locker building.
"Go in," he ordered. "Next man—Prichard."
Prichard, leisurely removing the sweater from his shoulders, stepped forward.
"Stay out! Get off the field! Next man!"
"Nothing left but third-string men," said Prince, behind him. "Want to see 'em in action?"
"I don't care if they're tenth-string men—what I want is one man who can hang onto a football. Is there anybody here who can? Oh, you can, can you? What's your name—Grant? You play right half. Signal! Hard, Grant! That's better. Yell it out, quarter—no secrets needed!"
When it was too dark to see the newest and yellowest of pigskins, the head coach sent his charges on a dispirited jog around the track, and looked for Hector. He found his man under the goal post jotting notes on the back of an old envelope.
"Well," said Prince, "what's your opinion, Bull?"
"Wait a second—all right. What is it?"
"What do you think?"
"Of the backs? Not bad."
"Not bad," said Prince, aghast. "Why—not bad! You don't know how bad they are. You haven't seen them under fire."
"I don't need to. Your best bet is Jordan, Grant, and Prichard."
"Jordan—why, you're all wrong! You're——"
"No," corrected Hector. "You've got a raw lot, Prince. I never saw such a raw lot so late in the season. I know you've had a hard job this year—you inherited a lot of fellows taught to play the old-fashioned game. I don't believe you can teach 'em the new one. What you need is men who can learn the most in three weeks. Jordan, Grant, and Prichard. They can't learn the game you tried to teach 'em, but they can learn Blanding."
"Learn what?"
"Oh!" He produced a little bundle of ruled sheets from his pocket, and offered them to his friend. "You see," said Hector, "I'm also the author of some plays that ought to fit this new game. Those plays need fast, brainy, middleweight men. Your backs were strong, slow-witted battering-rams, or else slow thinkers, fast on their feet. Now I can teach at least three men of the squad to play my game—the three I've mentioned will learn faster, because they don't know much now. I picked 'em from—well, psychology. Grant's got to be flattered, and praised—if you can persuade him he's a wonder, he'll play like one. Prichard's sensitive as a girl—did you see his expression when I sent him off? And Jordan——"
"Come up to my room after the meeting, will you? I've got to have words with you. Why, Bull, you're all wrong!"
Hector blushed.
"I'm sorry," he said uncomfortably, "I'll have to duck the meeting tonight." He put on his spectacles and his coat. "I'll come to your room, though. Look over those plays beforehand, if you have time. And, Prince—if you hear any talk about a book I'm writing, just leap on it, will you? These boys mightn't take my coaching so well if——"
"What's the name of the book?" asked Prince.
" 'The—The History of Carthage from Mummius to Herodes Atticus,' " said Hector faintly.
"Good Lord!" gasped Prince. "Good heavens—good night!"
"So long," said Hector happily.