# The Freshman (Holman)/Chapter 16

The sign "No Admittance" was nailed to the entrance of Tate Field during that last tense week. Mike Cavendish went to work in grim earnest with his charges. Cavendish's scouts reported from Stateville, seat of Union State University, that Tate's rivals had a fast, well coached team that would outweigh Captain Trask's eleven an average of ten pounds to a man. Moreover, Union State that season had acquired a reputation for hard, rough tactics and, learning of the delicate condition of certain stars of the Red and White, were avowedly out to "get" them. Ordinarily Cavendish would have loved a rough-and-tumble match. But now he glanced at Crawford, in uniform but limping, and at his other injured key men and sighed.
He scrimmaged his varsity team with the scrubs Tuesday, with Crawford calling signals for the first eleven and Tichenor for the second. There was a lighter scrimmage on Wednesday afternoon and one of only ten minutes on Thursday. But the latter mêlée was just two minutes too long. Tichenor, carrying the ball on a short plunge through tackle, was downed hard and came up with a ​drawn face and a peculiarly limp looking shoulder. He tried to sneak back behind his burly center without Cavendish seeing him. But Mike was wise. He came trotting up.
"Let's see that shoulder, Tichenor," he barked. And, turning, "Mulligan! Mulligan!!"
The trainer kneaded the bruised member with sensitive fingers. "It ain't broke; but it's a pretty bad sprain," announced Mulligan to the coach.
"Gee," said Cavendish. "It's a tough year on quarterbacks. You're through for the day, Tichenor. Let Hughie bandage that shoulder for you and, for the love of Mike, take care of it." He turned toward the bench and looked over the occupants. "Hollister," he yelled. "Take Tichenor's place here."
Harold settled back in his seat again. He had been certain it would be Hollister, but he had leaned forward to catch the coach's eye anyway. He was sorry for Tichenor, of course. But the fact remained that there were only four quarterbacks on the field—Crawford, Tichenor, Hollister and—Lamb. Of these, the first two were now in a brittle condition.
As if to confirm Harold's optimistic calculations, Chester Trask gave him a copy of the ​special set of signals that were to be used by the men who played in the game with Union State.
"You go to work and learn these signals letter perfect," said the Captain impersonally. "Crawford will probably be fit to play the whole game Saturday, but you never can tell. It won't do you any harm to get these signals down cold. I don't have to caution you about being mighty careful of that paper."
The action of Trask in giving him the signals for the Union State game meant a lot, as Harold explained to Peggy on the Sayre porch that evening. Everybody on the squad hadn't received them. They were reserved for just the men who would probably play in the big contest. Harold was elated, and Peggy encouraged him.
"Just let 'em give me a show in that game and I'll prove what 'Speedy' Lamb really can do," declared Harold.
"You bet you will," echoed Peggy.
In a few minutes he arose.
"I've got to go upstairs now and study these signals," he told her. The signals were on his mind.
"I just know I'm going to hear you calling them out there on Saturday," said Peggy optimistically.
"Say, those pretty good seats they ​handed me for you and your mother, aren't they?" Harold asked.
"Right in the center of the field. I'll be patching you every minute."
Friday afternoon Cavendish took his charges across the street from the practice field over to the great Tate Stadium, where the game was to be played. He wanted to accustom them to the turf and air currents. Large piles of straw were banked along the sides of the field, ready to be spread as soon as the practice was over to guard against rain. The huge tiers of seats looming upward from the horseshoe-shaped arena seemed miles high. Harold, catching punts with the other quarterbacks near the north goal, cast a hurried eye around and could not believe that to-morrow this vast wilderness of concrete and timber would be filled with people.
Then the strains of a jaunty band came from in back of the walls. Harold's head turned in the direction of the music. But he jerked back to attention again as Cavendish's barking voice shouted, "Lamb! Snap into it, man. Take quarter on the scrubs for a while."
Harold trotted obediently over. With Cavendish glowering not five feet from his elbow, he ran the second team through a short signal practice. He was engaged thus when the Tate Band, in gay red sweaters, red caps and creamy ​white flannel trousers, came swinging in the lower gate of the Stadium at the head of fifteen hundred Tatians singing "Tate Forever More." The practice ceased for a while as the band wheeled around the field and its followers scrambled up to seats in the stands. The leader, straight and chesty, twirled his shiny baton and it flashed in the sun. He gave a signal. The band executed a neat maneuver and formed a giant "T." The students in the stands cheered. Then the band, too, sought seats in the grandstand. White-flanneled cheer leaders leaped in front of the first row of Tatians, flashed their megaphones, waved their arms and fifteen hundred throats burst into:
Harold might have been reminded of the first time he had listened to that yell, from his own lips in front of the mirror in his Sanford bedroom. And it is a certainty that he would not now have wished to change places with the leaping cheer leaders. But, truth to tell, Harold did not even hear the Tate battle cry. He was concentrating so intensely upon directing the scrub eleven faultlessly through ​their last signal practice under the watchful eye of Mike Cavendish.
"That's all," said Mike shortly. "Lamb and Childers, come here." Harold and the big scrub fullback walked over to the coach. "Childers, go down the field fifty yards and take this kick. Run it back. Lamb, you tackle him."
Harold understood at once. The coach, never having seen this ex-joke Freshman in scrimmage, was having a last-minute try-out. From behind Cavendish, Harold could catch the anxious eye of Chester Trask. Harold gritted his teeth, braced himself and faced the heavy, bullet-like Childers, the man who was spoken of as Trask's logical successor at varsity fullback. Cavendish, with an ease and proficiency that was a credit to him, punted the ball. Childers took it nicely on the fly and started up the field like a rifle shot. Nearing Harold, he cut sharply to the right. But the Freshman was not to be denied. All the weeks of Trask's coaching were telling him how to handle himself. He darted after Childers, neared him, dived under the fullback's vicious straight-arm and felled him cleanly and finally.
Cavendish and Trask exchanged a significant glance.
"Don't mean a thing," Cavendish snorted ​softly. "Anybody can tackle with a set-up like that. A game's different."
In the stands the loyal Tatians were cheering each member of the varsity separately, ending with a wild burst of enthusiasm for Chester Trask. All the players on the field were now idle except the first eleven, which was grimly going through their final signal practice. Crawford, a huge white bandage binding his right ankle tightly, was calling the numbers. Many an anxious Tate eye observed that the star's limp was scarcely perceptible, and rejoiced. Velie and Woolsey, the injured linemen, hobbled slightly, but were seemingly as pepful as ever. The Tate casualty list had apparently rounded into shape. The students wondered if the New York papers, commenting on the approaching gridiron classic, were not right in saying that reports of injuries at Tate were just a part of foxy Mike Cavendish's fake pessimism and designed to breed overconfidence at Union State. Where the Tatians, however, did not believe the papers was in the sporting writers' predictions that, on the face of their comparative records, Union State ought to win the game.
There were more cheers and songs from the grandstand. Then the rooters, having completed their annual last-minute demonstration ​for their football warriors, formed on the field behind their band and marched back to the campus singing "Tate, Forward March to Victory." Harold, sitting on the bench on the side lines, suddenly became aware that the malevolent eyes of Dan Sheldon, sauntering beside Garrity on the outside edge of the parade, were upon him.
"How's the water boy to-day?" Dan yelled to the Freshman and, nudging Garrity, pointed out the fourth-string varsity quarterback with a laughing sneer.
Harold's face reddened and his fists clenched. He would like to have rushed out and hit that dark, snaky face once more. But he subsided and contented himself with waving back an acknowledgment of greetings from Joe Bartlett and Leonard Trask, marching side by side among the Tate hordes.
"Atta boy. Lamb," shouted Joe.
"Go get 'em. Lamb," echoed Leonard.
Harold sat alone amid the mob that jammed the Tate auditorium that evening at the final mass meeting of the season. On the stage were the members of the varsity eleven in civilian clothes, along with the team manager, Coach Cavendish and "Cupid" Williams, Tate's most famous football rooter. Williams, who weighed nearly three hundred pounds, had been a star gridiron player at ​Tate around 1902. Though now a wealthysteel man, he had preserved his love for football and his college and followed the Tate elevens year after year with all the youthful enthusiasm of an undergraduate. He saw every game, spent many days of his valuable time assisting the coaches, always passed the final week of the season at Tate and was annually a center of attraction at the last mass meeting. Williams's interest in Tate football yearly took a more material form in the presentation of a brand new and latest model headguard to each member of the varsity eleven on the eve of the Union State game. A heap of these harnesses was now piled in back of Williams's extra-size chair.
Aside from the football men, the auditorium stage also held the leader of the glee club, who doubled as head cheer master, and his assistant cheer leaders. Below, in the orchestra pit, were massed the Tate Band. The glee club leader led cheers and the building rocked with hoarse youthful voices. The band played Tate songs and the rafters trembled anew.
Then "Cupid" Williams wheezed heavily to his feet. There was a new wave of enthusiasm.
"That's the stuff that wins for Tate," shouted Williams. "Don't think these foot​ball lads up here don't appreciate, because they do. If you've with them—and I can see you are—they'll wallop Union State to-morrow to a frazzle! (Roars of approval.) Mickey Cavendish will get up later and tell you it's going to be tough and all that. But don't believe him. It's the bunk! To-morrow is Tate's day and no power on earth can change that! (Hysterics from the audience.) Now, somebody once told me that it helped football players to keep their heads up if they had something nice and new to keep them up in. So, ever since, I've been bringing around these new headguards at about this time. And it's always worked! (Cries of "You bet it has!" and "Atta boy, 'Cupid'!") Without any further bull then, I'll present the first headguard to the man every Union State gets heart failure over if you so much as mention his name—Captain Trask!"
The cheer master sprang to his feet. "Long cheer for Captain Trask!" he barked. Harold yelled himself red in the face with the rest of the undergraduate body.
Trask set an example for the rest of the team by thanking Williams for the present, shaking hands with him and not making a speech. Next came Crawford, and he got nearly as big a hand as the captain. And so on down the line to big Mershon, the center. ​Then Coach Cavendish was announced. Harold was surprised at the subdued appearance the fiery-tongued football mentor made in his unaccustomed white collar and long trousers. Mike, the Freshman guessed correctly, would have felt much more at home in his usual faded blue sweater and tattered moleskins. Cavendish stepped hesitantly to the front of the platform, amid cheers.
"If you fellows are counting on betting money on Tate—don't!" began the coach, subduing his husky voice until it was an almost inaudible rasp. "These Union State lads are there—and don't you forget it for a minute. And, in spite of the New York papers saying it's the bunk, we have a lot of men in pretty bad shape. But I'll say this for them: They'll all be out there with their heads up, fighting. You can bank on that." He turned and swept the team with the fighting eyes they knew so well. Then he sat down. And there were more cheers. They stopped as Cavendish rose again and said in a louder voice, "I forgot to say that the varsity team is now going home and go to bed. And I want every member of the squad that has been ordered to report in uniform at the Stadium to-morrow to go home and go to bed too. I want fresh, snappy people to work with out there. Don't forget that!"
​Harold was among those who followed as the team filed down off the stage and out of the building through the aisles of shouting students. He could hear the army left in the auditorium still singing "Tate Forever More" as he walked down University Street. Already the football crowds were pouring into town. The sidewalks were unusually animated for a Friday night. The entrance to the brightly lighted Hotel Tate was blocked with people, and in the lobby he could see swarms. Peggy would be very busy to-night and to-morrow, though she had secured time off to go to the game with her mother and use the two tickets Harold had presented to hen Peggy was prettier than any of the pretty girls laughing and chatting with their escorts in the crisp November night of University Street. Harold was quite sure of that.
As he made his way through a group of people on the sidewalk in front of the Tate, a man suddenly detached himself from the rest and caught Harold by the sleeve.
"You're Harold Lamb, aren't you?" asked a voice somehow familiar. Harold looked up into the face of Walter Coburn, Jr., son of the Sanford banker. But he had to look twice to make sure. The eyes and skin of young Coburn were so much clearer than they had been on the occasion of their last meeting. ​His posture had straightened. He looked much more like a real man.
They shook hands in friendly fashion, and Walter, taking the arm of the smiling blonde woman beside him, introduced her as his wife. She too had changed. The ex-burlesque queen was dressed modestly and had nearly all the refined appeal of any of the débutantes or students' sisters around her.
In answer to Harold's friendly inquiries, Walter divulged that he was selling bonds in New York and that his wife had a small rôle in a Theater Guild production.
"No more white lights for us," laughed Walter, and he looked at his wife proudly. "We've settled down into a respectable, hard-working married couple. It's all Ruth's fault. Dad had her all wrong, you see. When he shut down on the dough, she stuck out her chin and said we'd make good in spite of him. And we have. And he's come around too. He's invited us out to Sanford for Christmas. That'll be our second outing since our marriage. This is the first."
The Sanfordians parted, agreeing to look each other up at Christmas time. Harold was thoughtful as he walked down University Street and turned into Clark. What changes in Walter in just a couple of months! Well, for that matter, what changes himself! ​How complete the development was in his case, and whether it was for better or worse would be revealed on the morrow, he grimly told himself—if he got his chance.
Ten minutes later, he was sitting, in his pajamas, on the side of his bed studying for the hundredth time the precious slip of paper that bore the Tate signals. The numbers were running through his brain as he slipped under the covers. It was an hour and a half before he could coax himself to sleep.