# Pepper/The Depth of Pepper McHenry

Sections: II — III — IV

### II THE DEPTH OF PEPPER McHENRY

DURING the first week of Freshman year, someone said in the hearing of James Pepper McHenry that notwithstanding the popular rumors to the contrary, a lot of good men come from Yale.
"Yes," said Pepper brightly, "and the better they are, the quicker they come!"
From this point forward it was generally understood by the class that McHenry was one of those deep thinkers—a man with whom it was unsafe to contend in repartee unless you had very recently read the current issue of the Lampoon, and had a comprehensive outfit of quips and cranks ready to your hand.
Then when Keith Collamore fell asleep over his Government 2a textbook, and ignited himself with a half-burned cigarette, it was McHenry who thought to roll him in a Brussels rug, save the rest of the cigarettes, and then wait for the fire department which—in spite of the horrid slush—was on the scene in less than twenty minutes. Pepper, standing at the window, demanded the life net, and promised to leap into it at the short end of two to one in any amount. For this escapade he speedily had an opportunity of explaining his private views to the Administrative Board, and of pleading to the charges of disorderly conduct in dormitory, inciting a riot, blasphemy, and sending in a false alarm. Pepper responded very truthfully that he hadn't done anything but yell. He admitted that in his excitement he might have suggested that some other Freshman send in the alarm, but he declined to accept the responsibility, even as accessory before the fact. He escaped unharmed from the Board, and partly for that reason, and partly because he had preserved Keith Collamore for the future use of the crew, McHenry was immediately invested with the glory of presence of mind, initiative, and ability to handle emergencies.
First impressions are strong; if on your first meeting with a horse, you plant a hard blow between his eyes, he may refuse to make friends with you later, but he will always treat you with considerable respect. So the glorious class of which McHenry was a charter member, having been struck with amazement at the uncanny attributes of the man, set him down as a wonder, and thought of him as rather the most remarkable fellow of them all. And this sort of thing, in time, means the Institute.
It might naturally be supposed that McHenry, decorated with the honorable appellation of Pep, crowned the chief wit and all-around tactician of the Freshmen, would have been satisfied with his lot. So he was—for a short time. Then gradually and incomprehensibly he began to show signs of melancholia. He refused many invitations to town, and spent much leisure in communing with himself in his own room. His friends became seriously concerned about him, but he lived on the second floor, and kept the key in the lock. The glee club recognized the quality of his tenor, and appropriated him for the Western trip, but he only smiled deprecatingly at the distinction. He wrote splitting parodies with such rapidity that the Lampoon editors were really considerate of his feelings, and printed enough of his stuff to qualify him for the paper in the early spring—which is almost unheard of in Cambridge—but he only sighed, looked angelic, and said the Lampoon seemed to be a nice little paper. He was on the Dinner Committee and the Entertainment Committee, and he attended all the meetings, threw in a few words of pungent comment now and then, and retired early, leaving the other members wondering what he could have meant by the very transparent statements he had made. The depth of Pepper McHenry was a source of pride to his class, and when his depth took the form of gloominess, the class was all the prouder. It realized that the cause must be too deep for their feeble intellects to grasp.
It wasn't until March of Freshman year that John Phillips, who, as he would modestly admit, "happened" to have been captain of the class eleven last fall, discovered why Pepper McHenry was so sorrowful, even when people weren't looking at him. McHenry, it appears, including his mesh underwear and his biggest pipe, weighed a hundred and thirty pounds. He presented the beefy aspect of the average unpicked squab, and he was morose and inconsolable because he wasn't an athlete.
The point came out when Phillips lay comfortably on McHenry's divan, blowing smoke rings at the chandelier. Out of one corner of his eye he could see Pepper at his desk, ostensibly composing a keen and biting satire for the forthcoming Lampoon, but in reality imagining himself an ordinary, stupid, boneheaded Freshman with no money, no particular family, a good pair of shoulders, and strength enough to step a hundred yards in ten seconds or better, or pull a rib out of the varsity boat as an every-day occurrence. Phillips didn't know that when McHenry's eyes melted and softened he was fancying himself so powerful that he had to be careful when he put on his clothes, for fear of tearing them. He should have realized that Pepper was at that very minute engaged in striking out three Yale batters with the bases full—and in the next minute he was throwing a sixteen-pound hammer so far that the Athletic Association had to send for a new one in order to finish the meet on schedule. Phillips didn't know these things; and so he naturally leaped at the most obvious conclusion, and having achieved the ultimate end of the pipe-smoker by blowing a small ring through a larger one, he said suddenly, and disconcertingly: "Well—who is she?"
"What!" said McHenry, returning to earth with a sickening bump to his pride—for he had been about to kick a field goal from the forty-yard line, and the interprepation had made him drop the ball.
"I said, 'who is she?'"
"She! What in thunder are you talking about?"
"That's what they all say," Phillips assured him gravely.
"Why ... John! You don't honestly think—Good Lord! Did I look as idiotic as that?"
"You did."
"But—"
"Pep," said his friend, "you're looking about as cheerful as a fish in a furnace. What's the matter?"
McHenry turned to his satire with a vast show of importance.
"Nothing. Nothing at all. I'm writing."
"You're a liar—for seven minutes by your own clock. Seven minutes and twenty seconds, to be exact. I want to know what's eating you?"
"I don't know ... nothing. ..."
"You're not on prob, are you?"
"Do you think I'd worry if I were?"
"Well, no ... indigestion?"
"Not a chance. As a matter of fact, I wish I did have indigestion—because then I wouldn't have to make excuses to silly lunatics like you who want to know what the matter is with me."
Phillips pondered that for some time, gave it up, and was about to resume his cross-examination when McHenry whirled on him, and pounded his desk violently.
"Good Lord, John! When I look at you or anybody like you, I get the jim-jams! Why couldn't I have been born with a pin-head and forty pounds more weight!"
"Thanks for the compliment," said Phillips drily.
"No ... you know I didn't mean it that way! But all I can do is to pull chest-weights in the gym, and run up to Porter Station and back with a crowd of greasy grinds every night—and you can get out on Soldiers' Field and whale the stuffing out of people! It makes me sick! I might just as well have gone to Wellesley—"
"Why, Pep!" The football man sat upright, and forgot to blow smoke rings. "Why—you don't mean—with all you've done, and the bean you've got—you want anything else, do you? What do you think you are, anyhow?"
"John," said Pepper soberly, "I'd swap every blamed thing I've got for your football numerals."
Phillips replaced the pipe in his mouth and blew a ring, through which he squinted at his peppery young friend.
"W-e-l-l," he observed, "you weren't on the front steps when they gave out the beef, ... were you?"
"It wasn't my fault," groaned Pepper. "Don't blame me for it, John. I feel worse about it than you do."
"You might try lacrosse—"
"Say," said McHenry, "if I can't play football as it is, do you think I could do it any better with a club?"
"Ever do any athletics at school?"
"A little—but our team only averaged a hundred and forty. Besides, I haven't told you the worst of it. You know I haven't tried for anything yet, don't you? Do you know why?"
"Let's have it."
McHenry blushed vividly, and averted his face.
"I couldn't pass the strength test," he said almost inaudibly.
"What"
"Yes—the best I could do was 540."
"Zowie!" said Phillips under his breath. He thought long and earnestly, while Pepper examined the details of a paper cutter. "But it's ridiculous!" breathed Phillips. "You're perfectly hard enough—I was telling somebody only a few days ago what a demon of a quarterback you'd have been, with a noodle like yours—and quick, too! Why, you could run a team like a steam engine! And you're simply great on grabbing chances, and getting away with 'em! And—well, of course 540 won't let you in for the big teams, but it 11 let you tackle the minor sports, won't it?"
McHenry shook himself, and picked up his pen.
"Sure it will!" insisted the football man; "500 for the minors, 600 for baseball and track, and 700 for crew and football. Still—I should think a man as clever as you are could have managed to get 700 somehow. How about soccer?"
"All I want is my football numerals," said McHenry gloomily. "No use. Nobody would ever mistake me for a white hope."
Phillips glanced at the clock, which showed that his lecture was perilously near. He wasted one more match on his trusty pipe, and picked up his cap from the study table.
"I'm sorry, Pep—only I should think a man as deep and crafty as you are could get away with it somehow. Let's talk it over again—because if you could possibly get by your test next fall, you'd surely have a chance for the class team." He grinned hopefully, and went out, leaving McHenry still rehearsing the salient features of the paper cutter.
Far over in the Yard the old bell on the chapel began to clang the summons to eleven o'clocks. Under McHenry's window a babel of voices rose cheerily, and acting on a sudden impulse, he got up, and peered down at the men swarming out of Ridgely and Claverly and Randolph. Among them he saw men he knew—Pat Welch, who translated Freshman German like a truck-driver, and made two touchdowns against Andover; Billy Rink, who was on probation half the time, and made a collection of numeral sweaters the other half; Abbot Wynkoop, the stupidest man in Randolph and the fastest man in Cambridge over the high hurdles; and Steve Findlay, who was up to his ears in conditions, and still weighed a hundred and sixty-one when he took his seat in the bow of the Freshman boat. Strong men, these, but shall brawn always have the call, and brain never get a hearing?
McHenry walked slowly back to his desk, and sat down. He was wondering, if he were really so astonishingly clever, why he couldn't assume the leading part in the three celebrated cases. Hare vs. Tortoise, David vs. Goliath, or Pen vs. Sword. Carelessly he brushed aside the satire for the Lampoon—his soul was above such things. Out of a mass of similar papers he dug a bit of brownish pasteboard on which was his puerile record for the strength test—the test which every athlete must take before he may report as a candidate for any athletic team. And McHenry had accumulated 540 pounds out of the necessary 700!
"Deep!" said Pepper to himself. "Good Lord! What d'you mean—deep? What the mischief is deep? And clever?" He scrutinized the tell-tale figures closely, and pounded the desk again. "Confound it!" yelled McHenry to his shivering reputation, "I'll show 'em whether I'm deep or not!" He dragged a tweed cap over his eyes, and started doggedly for the gymnasium.
II
At the beginning of sophomore year, three notable events were recorded in the annals of the great university. Steam heat and electric lights were introduced into the rooms in Holworthy; Massachusetts Avenue was closed to the public and opened to its very vitals for the new subway; and Pepper McHenry passed the strength test. The first two of these occurrences escaped more than the traditional seven days' comment; but the young assistant physical director who put McHenry through his evolutions in Dr. Sargent's sanctum couldn't believe the evidence of his own eyes; and wrote a paper for the Graduates Magazine, bragging about the Sargent system of training which had enabled a very slight young man to increase his rating from 540 to 702 in a single year. It was all but incredible, he said, even although the young man had exercised on the testing machines all last spring. Those of Pepper's friends who had seen him in running clothes wouldn't believe the rumor until they saw the certificate which gave him permission to play class football. Dr. Sargent didn't believe it anyway. The student Council got hold of the matter, and, scenting chicanery, suggested that to save further discussion. Pepper had better take his strength test over again; and Pepper said that he'd gladly do it if all the members of the Council would resign, and compete for their places in another election. His plan was as fair for them, he said, as theirs was for him; or, in other words, everybody ought to stand by the returns. Or, still more intelligibly, you can't unscramble an egg. The upshot of the whole matter was that McHenry invested plenteously in shoe-leather, moleskin and crimson wool, and reported to his class captain as a candidate for the sophomore team.
There is a strong probability that the captain, one Whittemore, wouldn't have given him an opportunity to show his powers if John Phillips, now on the varsity squad, hadn't turned an ankle, and was sent over to spend an afternoon coaching his classmates.
"Say, you Whittemore," said Phillips. "I'd advise you not to make any mistake about Pep McHenry. He was a perfect devil at prep-school."
"Mistake!" retorted the captain. "Why, I'd just as soon have a crippled chicken on the team! He isn't big enough to blow the whistle!"
Phillips tapped his forehead significantly.
"He may not be as big as the Bunker Hill monument," he conceded, "but he's there with the head-work, and don't you forget it. And just because he didn't come out last year, there's no reason for you to be prejudiced. You give him a try-out."
Obediently the class captain gave McHenry a try-out. It consisted in tackling the dummy, but when the spectacle was over, there was a difference of opinion as to whether McHenry had tackled the dummy, or the dummy had tackled McHenry. At any rate, he flung himself against the weighted figure so viciously that two brawny guards carried him off the field; and, curiously enough, the slight contusions on Pepper's knee-cap, coupled with the manner in which he had flown at the dummy, filled the squad with as much disconsolation as though they had lost the entire line.
"Come on!" begged the captain. "Come on, you fellows! This is a serious business, even if it's only interclass. Won't you kindly hump yourselves?"
"That little shrimp," said one end to the other, "is one of the darnedest best quarterbacks you ever saw in your life!"
"Ever see him play?"
"I don't need to."
"Gee!" said a halfback. "He had just the snap we needed."
"For Pete's sake!" howled the captain. "Are you all going to quit just because Pep McHenry got bumped in the shin? Who's trying for quarter? Sewall?"
"I was," said Sewall, "but I'm not."
"What's the reason you aren't?"
"Well, I don't think there's any use. Pep McHenry—"
"Are you scared out? Where's Spinden?"
"Oh, I'm here all right," said a gentle bass voice, as Spinden emerged from the background and presented himself for inspection. "Only I don't want to try quarter this year. I'd only be a sub, if Pep's playing. I want to try for half."
The captain put his hands on his hips, and groaned.
"Well—"
"Well—?"
"Line up, anyway! Line up!"
"That boy McHenry," said Sewall to his room-mate, "is fast as the dickens."
"Hey, Whit, when Pep comes back can I play end?"
"Shut up—shut up, everybody! Sewall, have you got the signals?"
"Why, not exactly," said Sewall. "I knew I wasn't going to try quarter, so I didn't learn 'em very well—just enough to play end."
"Suffering Judas! Spinden, you play—"
"Oh, I don't know 'em, anyway. I didn't have time. Don't you suppose a man has got to do dome work once in a while? I had a Phil conference this morning."
Whittemore observed with great relief that John Phillips was stalking across the plain towards them.
"Oh, John," he demanded, "is he hurt much?"
No—he'll be out in a couple of days. Slammed his knee, that's all. Well—" he turned to the wrangling sophomores—"what is this—a football practice, or a thé dansant?"
The men, awed by the intonation of a varsity substitute, shuffled into line. First impressions are strong, and every man there, knowing Pepper McHenry as they all thought they knew him, was convinced that practice for the next few days would be a farce without him.
"You play quarter, Sewall," ordered Whittemore. "And say—try to get some life into it, will you? We don't need to hand Pep this job without at least giving him a little competition. Well ... let's hope he's back soon. Signal! "
III
Two weeks' practice is quite sufficient for class football. Often it is too much. The sophomore team, which was admittedly certain to win the interclass series, and their numerals, went from bad to worse during those two weeks, so that if the work had lasted a few days longer, it would have gone from worse to impossible.
Contrary to the original opinion, McHenry didn't report again until the day before the first game, which was with the juniors. On the strength of his tremendous reputation he had eaten at training table at Memorial; and he had improved the interval by learning the rules by heart, and committing the signals so thoroughly to memory that he could recite them back- wards or forwards, and, as he was willing to prove on sufficient provocation, in French or German, As an instance of his adaptability: he attended on Monday night one of the Cambridge dances at Brattle Hall, and noted, during the progress of the Virginia Reel (danced solely for the benefit of the older chaperones) that Kendall, one of the halfbacks, was hopelessly stranded some distance from his grandmotherly partner. Claflin, a tackle, was in the foreground.
"22—6—18—3!" hissed McHenry to the bewildered Kendall, who, with a heartfelt sigh of gratitude, followed the signal, dashed about five yards outside of tackle, and found his partner waiting for him just where the play was generally spilled by the opponents.
"Holy Mackerel!" said Kendall after the Reel was over, "he didn't have time to explain, and it isn't polite to point. And I'd forgotten what the dear old creature looked like! By gosh, Qaflin, you'll have to admit he's clever!"
"I'm with you," said Claflin briefly. "What a pity he hasn't got more weight! I'll bet he'd make his H."
The sophomores met the juniors on Tuesday, and aided by a prodigious amount of cheering, and some outrageous decisions by an incapable referee, ran the score up to 26-0 in the first half. McHenry, as an invaluable man, but one who was subject to injury, was kept on the sidelines, as befits a delicate organism. The intermission, however, was punctuated by such vociferous demands for Pepper that he was sent into the game to begin the second half. He went on the field in the manner of a small cyclone.
The sophomores kicked off, and McHenry, being unopposed, got down under the kick with the speed of a bullet. He was never nearer than ten yards to the man with the ball, but the class cheered him just the same.
"Suffering cats! What speed!" they said.
The juniors attempted a play or two in the line, and McHenry howled vivid instructions to his forwards. He was so far in the backfield that he wasn't of the least assistance, but his dynamic energy impressed the spectators, and added fire and dash to the other men on the eleven,
"Murder! What pep!" they said delightedly.
Then suddenly the two lines widened; and Kendall came trotting back towards him.
"Look out for a kick, Pep!" he cried.
Out of the sky came a dirty yellow spheroid, whirling with devilish persistence as it fell. Numbly McHenry caught it, and numb with his success he stood in his tracks, while a too-anxious junior end, diving headlong at him, fell on his face, and left him a clear field. McHenry naturally ran the ball in a matter of twenty yards, and the sidelines rocked with enthusiasm.
"Did you see him dodge that end—did you?"
"Gee! What an eye!"
"Put him clean out of the play!"
"What! My God! He's hurt!"
McHenry was helped to his feet by Whittemore and Kendall, and although he grinned pluckily, and tried to stand alone, he collapsed as soon as the supporting hands were removed.
"I'm all right!" he pleaded agonizedly. "I'm all right, Whit—let me stay in! I'll be all right in a minute!"
"We can't take chances on you—this is sewed up tight! We'll need you next week! Get out, Pep—get off the field! Oh, Spinden!"
McHenry limped to the sidelines, where some one enveloped him in a blanket. Sympathy poured into his ears—he was a great quarterback, they said, and it was an adjectived shame that he had to have such tough luck. At any rate—the juniors had already beaten the seniors, so the sophomores couldn't lose the series unless the seniors beat them next week—and so ad infinitum. And McHenry, when he had emerged from his daze, and was more acutely conscious of the pain in his knee, suddenly realized that he had been actually wounded on the field of battle—that he had been knocked out, and hurt in a game of football, and in spite of the pain, he gloated at the recollection. He had come out for football solely to win his numerals; It suddenly came to him that what he had really wanted was to play football! He wished that big junior had hit him harder—much harder! He wasn't simply McHenry, the wit; McHenry, the shrimp funny-man; he was McHenry, the class quarterback. He had won his reputation on subterfuge; he had thought that it would surely crumble when put to trial; but he had run that ball back twenty yards, and he was proud of it!
McHenry gritted his teeth to keep the tears out of his eyes, and watched his classmates collect another dozen points against the disorganized junior team before he was forced to ask a substitute center to help him in to the locker building. The substitutes didn't bother to ask his advice in the matter, but deposited him unceremoniously on a bench, and went for the trainer. The verdict was a sprain; the prescription was complete rest for a week. The final game was due in six days.
"A ... week!" said McHenry faintly.
"An week!" said Donovan, departing.
So for five torturing days Pepper took a taxicab to Soldiers' Field to watch his fellows perfecting end runs, and skin tackle plays, and forward passes, and all the other intricacies by which they hoped to win renown for the class, and numerals for themselves. A dozen times he was on the point of confessing to Whittemore that he really wasn't half as much of a football player as they thought he was, but each time that he conceived the idea, he saw himself in fancy kicking that field-goal from the forty-yard line, and his resolution wavered. There was one chance in a thousand, he thought, that he might make good—and so he never told Whittemore. And besides, he was under orders not to play for a week anyway. In the meantime, the class talked in undertones, and said that McHenry's injury lowered their chances by fifty per cent.!
The fatal day came—as fatal days have had a habit of doing for many years; and McHenry, still technically disabled, dressed disconsolately with his classmates. He might as well, he said, go in proper attire to his own funeral. It was considered quite the thing in the best society, and he'd better get used to it; even if his week of probation was not over, and he wasn't supposed to dream of playing.
Now and then history repeats itself, and the tortoise wins a second leg on the cross-country competition. That team of despised seniors—half of whom wore spectacles off the field—went into it with the firm resolution to keep the score below twenty, and their plan succeeded so admirably that the first quarter, and the the second ended in a scoreless tie. Moreover, the confident sophomores had saved themselves by the barest luck from being scored on.
McHenry trailed after his mates to the haven of the locker building, and listened with admiration to the vocabulary of his friend Whittemore. The sophomores, said Whittemore, were a disgrace to the Grand Army. They played like a Class B team in the Epworth League on an off day. They ran with the speed of frightened rhinoceri, and they tried to tackle opponents by casting piercing glances at the enemy's retreating feet. They deserved to be beaten, and to be beaten would mean a triple tie for the series, and no numerals for anybody; while if neither side scored, the sophomores, as undefeated, would take the award. It was therefore necessary to score, or at least to prevent the other team scoring, and Whittemore called upon the ancestry of his men, upon their loyalty to anything they cared to think about, upon their manhood and their class spirit and their hope of numerals to get out there and fight like wildcats. After which the sophomores talked nervously to each other in undertones, forced the will into the eye, went back to the conflict, and proceeded to muff punts with the regularity of clockwork. That is the result of most perorations.
The third quarter ended with the score still a tie, but again the sophomores had only good fortune to thank. Sewall was hurt, and retired in favor of Spinden, who promptly fell in front of a cross-buck, and had to give way to an inferior third-string man. The seniors, diagnosing the situation, punted as soon as they got the ball, and as the third-string man always dropped the ball, the rooters on the sidelines began to show the premonitory symptoms of heart-failure. Steadily the seniors advanced, gaining a few yards on every exchange of kicks ... they crossed the center line, and punted again ... and the quarterback dropped the ball! Kendall got it just in the nick of time. The sophomores kicked ... the seniors prepared to punt back. This time Whittemore held up his hand.
"Mr. Referee!" he barked. "Oh, Mr. Referee! Fatty! Time out!" He lifted two fingers towards the blanketed substitutes. "Pep!" he barked. "McHenry!"
McHenry's sweater was hauled over his head; some one banged him encouragingly on the back; and he stumbled out on the field. All the field was turning black ... his knee was stiff ... he knew he hadn't any right to play! There must be a mistake somewhere! He hadn't intended ... why, these silly idiots must think he could really play football! He tried to say something about it, but the words stuck in his throat. He remembered the presence of mind of Brown of Harvard, but—for himself—he felt pale green.
"There's only about four minutes, Pep!" whispered Whittemore hoarsely. "All you've got to do is to catch that ball, and run like blue blazes! Even with a bum knee, you're the best we've got! It's up to you! Six times this half we ought to have been scored on—this time they'll kick right down to the goal-line, and if you drop that ball, and they get it, they'll score a touchdown!"
McHenry the Deep, McHenry the Clever, McHenry who had got himself on the class team by sheer nerve and strategy, stumbled back until he stood between the goal-posts. Only a few yards ahead of him he saw the lines forming. Out of the sky he saw that dirty yellow bird soaring, soaring ... he was perfectly conscious that Billy Whittemore was running towards him, screaming as he ran. Also a few thousand seniors, yelling fiendishly as they ran! And countless millions of lunatics ranged alongside the field—all yelling fiendishly!
McHenry caught the ball, and went down under a whirlwind tackle on the one yard line. He was dragged to his feet, and cast aside.
"Get out of the way!" said McHenry impotently. "Let me through here!"
He was behind the line; mechanically he gave the signal for Kendall to take the ball.
"No! No!" roared Whittemore, but he was too late. The ball was already in play; and McHenry, pivoting, saw his captain scrambling on the ground. The rest of the backfield, excited and unnerved, had over-run. McHenry felt hands grasping at his shoulder ... and he knew that if he went down, he would be over the line, and score a safety—and two points—for the other side.
McHenry fired the ball aimlessly in the air.
"Forward pass!" he gasped. "Forward pass!"
There was a wild mêlée for the ball, and a wild shriek from the seniors when the other twenty-one men were pried off their fullback, and the ball was found under his abdomen—less than six inches from the last white line, and victory!
"Touchdown! Touchdown!"
"One play to put it over—one play!"
"Seniors' ball," said the referee, rising.
"Hold on!" said McHenry with some difficulty. "Hold on a second, Fatty—that was an uncompleted forward pass! It's our ball!"
"What?"
"Oh, never, never!"
"The nerve of the peanut!"
"Why, our man's got it!"
"Never in the world!"
"Show me the rules!"
"Wait a minute!" pleaded the harassed referee.
"Rule 19, section c," piped McHenry. "You look it up!"
"Who's got a rule-book?"
"You have—in your hip-pocket! What rule did you say, Pep?"
"Nineteen—it's an uncompleted forward pass! It hit the ground before anybody touched it. It's our ball!"
"Yes, by gosh! But—"
"But he didn't try to make a pass! That's evading—"
"You're darned right he did! Didn't you hear him yell it out?"
"It's an outrage!"
"It's—it's in the rules," said the referee. "Only—I never thought of it that way before. It seems perfectly clear. It certainly did hit the ground before anybody touched it! It's still the sophomores' ball!"
"Time!" shouted the head-linesman. "You're a fine fat bunch of officials, you are! You didn't blow your whistle for time out when this row started. Game's over! Sophomores win the series!"
The two teams disintegrated into a riot as the referee hurriedly sneaked away.
"Nothing to nothing!"
"Highway robbery!"
"What a rotten, rotten fake!"
"They hired the timekeeper!"
"How absolutely disgusting! Fatty—you're crazy!"
"You're a gang of pickpockets!"
"Robbers, robbers!"
From left and right the rival classes swept to the fray. Nothing but black eyes and torn coat-tails could wipe out this deadly rivalry. Not since the Bloody Monday rush was abolished had a thing like this come to pass—it was too good to miss! Instead of fighting for supremacy with class football teams, the classes themselves swooped to the attack, with the teams in the center, and it was a good, even contest until the sun set over the Stadium, and darkness spelled a truce. Then they all went back to the Square, telling each other how good they were. Somewhere about the middle of the crowd was Pepper McHenry, and it is difficult to say whether he was prouder of the athletic glory now open to him in the form of numerals, or of his left eye, which had already closed, or of the reiterated statements of his friends that he was a crafty, clever lad—for of all the warring clansmen in the class series, he was the only man who had so much as opened a rule-book.
"Nobody but you would have thought of it, Pep!" they chorused. "Gee! You've got a head like a tack! If you only had about thirty pounds more weight!"
McHenry said nothing, but thought much.
"Holy Smoke!" he said to himself, patting his eye tenderly. "Am I deep? Am I? I'm hanged if I don't believe they're right!"
IV
McHenry's cousin, who was at Dartmouth, came down for a week-end, and happened upon McHenry's report of his strength-test.
"Christmas!" he exclaimed. "Does 700 let you in for football? It does us. You just squeaked through, didn't you? But—Christmas! I didn't know you're as strong as that!"
"Yeah!" said McHenry. "As a matter of fact, I'm not. Just a little deep stuff, Roger."
"Deep stuff?"
"Correct. I just got acquainted with the machines last spring. They're almost human. They've all got their faults. And I just had to play football! Well, over in the gym there's a loose board right behind the thing they use for the back test. It's a couple of handles, you know, and you take 'em between your knees and tug. Well, if you stand on that loose board, it works like a charm. You get a little bounce, and pull the daylights out of the thing."
"Zowie!" gasped the cousin from Dartmouth.
"Yes. Then there's the lung test. Instead of blowing gradually the way most men do, you just give one good snort, and you've got her. The doctor said I had enough lung capacity to blow up a balloon. And on the grip—well, you work that the other way. If you give it a good squeeze, you get about 25, but if you give a long, steady one you run it up to 40 or 45."
"But—is it fair?"
"Fair! It's on their own equipment! It isn't my fault if I learned how to work the things, is it? It's what I call taking darned good advantage of your opportunities, that's all!"
The cousin caught sight of a numeral sweater on the floor, and pounced upon it.
"Gee! You're a deep guy!" he said with great conviction. "What's this for?"
"Oh, not much ... just class football. It really doesn't amount to much. I'm not going to try for the team another year—it takes too much time, and I'm on the Lampoon, you know, and then—" he yawned diffidently—"if I need exercise, I think I'll take a shot at the crew."
The cousin regarded McHenry soberly, estimating each one of his hundred and thirty pounds at full value; but because he was a Dartmouth man, and although of generous size and adequate physique, he had never been able to win so much as a class football insignia, he merely fingered the numeral sweater appreciatively, and said never a word to McHenry. He was wondering how it would feel to be clever!