# The Freshman (Holman)/Chapter 15

"I am enclosing the check for $100 that you wrote me for," read the letter Harold received from his mother the next morning. "Harold, do you think you are doing wisely in spending this money for a dance? It doesn't sound like you. I didn't dare show your father the letter you wrote asking for the money. I knew he would raise the roof if he saw it. And I don't think Uncle Peter would approve either. We are all well here. I hope you are well too. It seems such a long time to Christmas, when you will be with us again. Your Uncle Peter is going on a trip around Thanksgiving time and says he may drop down and see you. Write whenever you have time. Dad joins me in sending you lots of love."
Harold read the epistle soberly and had to acknowledge that his mother's judgment about the foolishness of the Frolic was correct.
That same day he received the bill from the Hotel Tate. It was for $180. And there was not a single charge on it even to the broken crockery and glassware his wild flight from the ballroom had caused, that he could have rescinded. He paid the bill and was dis​mayed to discover the low state of his finances.
Well, he argued, many a man at Tate was living on even less than he had. The lion-picture Senior, Parsons, for one. In a way, Harold congratulated himself; it was a blessing. If he had no money to spend, he would have to stay home and study. He would be able to withstand invitations such as the one for the automobile party to Lakeport.
He soon discovered that, even with money, he would have had little difficulty in declining invitations. For the invitations did not come. Dan Sheldon, deeply chagrined at the battering he had received at "Speedy's" hands, was using his tongue for backbiting. He had spread the report around that Harold Lamb was, after all, a pretty disagreeable character. What would you think of a chap who had sneaked up on his best friend and handed him a clout alongside the jaw just as the result of a little misunderstanding, eh? Of course he (Sheldon) had given Lamb a thorough licking after that first cowardly blow. That was why "Speedy" had disappeared so suddenly from the Frolic. But "Speedy" was a good fellow to stay away from. An ingrate. And, in addition to those unpleasant things, a boob. While Tatians as a whole did not bank upon the word of Dan Sheldon, still they decided that where there was so much smoke ​there must be fire. They were "off" "Speedy" Lamb. He had served his purpose by being lured into the Frolic business. Now he was ripe for the discard.
Besides, the new "Speedy" proved to be not a very cheerful person to mix with from the viewpoint of that element in the Tate undergraduate body that was in college for a good time. (And that, unfortunately, was the only element that Harold had thus far been catering to.) "Speedy" became taciturn, serious-minded, careful of his money. Seemingly he spent all of his time in classroom, football field or his room. His work on his studies improved as his false popularity declined. The professors, who had been shaking their heads over him and noting him as a possible flunk-out in the Spring, began to change their minds as to his mental caliber. The more substantial section of the students, who had hitherto avoided Harold as an empty-headed braggart, began to wonder if they had not misjudged him. Men like "Shelley" Logan, who had been accustomed to greeting Harold with a curt nod, became, after observing him for two or three probationary weeks, cautiously cordial.
From another quarter also came friendly advances. Leonard Trask, meeting Harold on the way to class a couple of days after the ​Frolic, came up to him and extended his hand.
"Chester told me what you did for me," said the obviously embarrassed Trask. "I want to thank you for pulling me out of a bad hole. I don't believe the guff Sheldon is saying about you. If there's anything I can ever do for you, let me know."
And Joe Bartlett, who accompanied his roommate, also shook hands and said, "Same here."
Harold visited their quarters on Hill Place once, after repeated invitations, but he resolved not to repeat the call. These aristocratic Westoverians meant well. But they were not his kind. He felt uncomfortable amid their luxurious furnishings and friends.
His adventures with the elder Trask proved much more agreeable and profitable. The football captain carried out his promise to the letter. Harold reported to him promptly at one o'clock the afternoon following the Frolic. He found Chester already in uniform, a football in his hand.
"I'm going to start you out the same as if you'd never played the game," Chester explained. "The first thing to do is to master a grasp of the fundamentals."
Chester spent the first hour of their new arrangement tossing the ball on the ground ​in front of Harold and coaching the Freshman how to fall upon it. At first the attempts of the former Sanford back were almost ludicrous. He missed the ball completely several times. He struck his chin and the back of his head upon the ground. His hips and thighs were sore. But in the last fifteen minutes he flung himself at the elusive pigskin and snuggled it to his chest time and time again in the approved Cavendish manner. He even showed promise in mastering the difficult feat of not only diving at the ball and seizing it, but, also, with a quick flip of the body, rising to his feet again and starting to run. Chester Trask was an adept at this and the previous Fall had won the Union State game for Tate by such a manœuver.
The other players, assembling around two o'clock, looked curiously at their captain and his pupil. When at length the private practice had to be called off for the day on account of the arrival of Coach Cavendish and the start of the regular session, Trask commented, "You improved a lot. You'll get there. Now, if Cavendish has you receive punts or drop kicks to-day, let the ball hit the ground and fall on it as I showed you instead of catching it. I'll explain to Cavendish why you do it."
As it happened, Harold was told to receive punts that day and followed Trask's orders. ​He had to stand for a number of jocular remarks from the other players for his strange tactics. Until Cavendish, looking very fierce, told one wise-cracker, "You mind your own business—see? And look out or this kid will be grabbing your job."
In his next seance with Trask, Harold spent the hour catching punts from the captain's toe. His experience of the previous day was repeated. He started off very raggedly, but, by heroic concentration, effort and attention to Trask's suggestions, showed distinct improvement at the end of the period. That Friday, the day before the Torrington game, Harold was so well pleased with himself that he thought his chances of playing against Union State looked the brightest they had to date.
Chester Trask's protégé sat on the bench during all four quarters of the game with Torrington College the next day and saw Tate walk over its lighter opponent to the tune of 19 to 0. Cavendish was not satisfied. But then, Cavendish never was. The coach declared in a loud voice that Tate's total should have been twice what it was. He was especially vehement about the mistakes of Crawford at quarterback.
"What's the matter with you, Crawford, hey?" he jawed the man who had been All-​American choice for the position the previous year and was a recognized star. "Getting a swell head? Think you've got your job cinched, hey? Well, let me tell you, young feller, that I got ten bloaters here that would have sense enough not to send a play straight into the line when they're five yards from the goal and can see the other team's tackles and guards all nicely pulled in to stop that very play.
"All you had to do was send somebody around end and you'd have caught them flat-footed. As it was, we lost the ball and seven points. And that's only one of the bones you pulled. Those All-American pickers will be giving you the icy mitt this year, old boy, if you keep that up. You want to snap out of it if you want to play on my little football club, Mr. All-American Crawford!"
It was the beauty of Mike Cavendish's bawling outs that he always delivered them in front of the whole assembled squad. And nobody dared smile or even look sympathetically at the man assailed, for nobody knew where the lightning would strike next. Not even Captain Trask was immune. Harold was especially interested in the coach's analysis of Crawford's shortcomings. For was not he the man for whose position Trask was grooming his private pupil?
​But if Harold had ever entertained any hopes of giving Crawford a run for his job, they sank during the following week. For Crawford, smarting under Cavendish's reproof, was like a man inspired. He ran wild through the scrubs and directed the varsity eleven like the genius he was. And in the game against McLeod the next Saturday he scored three touch-downs single-handed and won a grudging compliment from his coach in the locker room afterward.
"It does the boys good to get smacked in their vanity once in a while," commented Mike Cavendish sardonically to Trask.
Crisp November had succeeded sultry October and the season of more important games for the Tate eleven was at hand. Coach Cavendish signalized the arrival of this more crucial period by protesting to Captain Trask regarding the extra hour of practice he was putting in every day.
"I don't want you going stale on me," declared the coach.
"Don't worry about my condition, Mike," said Trask. "I'll watch it. I won't do anything that will hurt me. But please don't ask me to drop these workouts with Lamb. I've a special reason for wanting to keep them up."
"You don't expect to make anything out of ​that fool Freshman, do you?" Cavendish snorted.
"I don't know about that. You'd be surprised how he's coming along. Stick him in a scrimmage soon as a favor to me, will you, Mike, and see what he does? Even if he wasn't getting along so well, I'd want to keep the one o'clock stuff up. I've another reason."
"Is he some relation of yours?" asked Cavendish curiously.
"No. Nothing like that. It's a very spe* cial reason."
"Oh, all right," conceded the coach. "Use your own judgment. What position is he supposed to be out for?"
"Quarterback."
"Going to grab Crawford's job, is he?" grinned Mike.
"Maybe—some day."
Tate journeyed to Massachusetts the following Saturday to meet Dahlgren Tech in the first crucial game of the season. A loyal band of some five hundred rooters chartered a Sound liner and made merry on the way to the game till the wee sma' hours of the morning. They made even merrier on the way back, for Tate trounced the strong Dahlgren team 14 to 3. Harold did not even occupy his familiar seat on the bench during this ​game. He was not invited to accompany the team. The erstwhile "'Speedy' the Spender" did not feel that he could afford the expense of the trip by boat.
The Tate players, assembling at the field the Monday following the game, could not conceal the jubilance they felt over their victory. Despite a rather rough encounter and the relative lightness of the Tatians, the locals had come through the struggle virtually without a scratch. Yet Mike Cavendish was worried.
"I almost wish they had walloped us," he confided to Trask. "Analyze those two touchdowns of ours and you can see they were both largely luck. Their field goal, on the other hand, was the result of good, hard, consistent line bucking. If we hadn't braced and held them for that one down, they'd have probably put it over for a touchdown. Besides, did you see what Union State did to them last week? 20 to 9. And Union State earned their points, while Dahlgren just happened to luck out a fluke safety and caught a wild forward pass for a freak run in the last minute of play. It don't look so good, Cap. And now these bozos will probably all get overconfident and start loafing on the job. No, sir—I, for one, don't feel like giving three cheers."
​He showed his uneasiness by delivering a tart lecture on Tate's shortcomings in what he called "that lucky win at Dahlgren," then keeping the entire first team out of scrimmage for the first three days of the week. While his real purpose in this was to prevent staleness in his star men, he intimated that he was doing it in the effort to see if some of the second and third string players did not deserve places on the varsity. And Harold, continuing to sit on the bench and do the menial jobs around the field, was not allowed in a single one of these minor scrimmages. When Wednesday night came and he knew the first team was to monopolize the field for the rest of the week, it took all of Harold's deep well of inspiration to keep his courage up to its wonted high pitch.
Well, there was still time to show them! There would always be time up until the last whistle blew in the Union State game!
The next Saturday Tate trimmed a fast team from Hazelton College with a very deceptive open formation and forward passing game, 21 to 7. Cavendish sent the entire second eleven in at the beginning of the second half. Hazelton scored their touchdown on the substitutes.
The next week was a more severe test. ​Western College, one of the big Conference teams, sporting a line composed of tough, corn-fed two hundred-pounders and a backfield of huskies that drove through like locomotives, hit the Tate Stadium. Tate had to play real football and realized it from the start. In the first five minutes of play, Western ripped the Tate line to shreds and Cavendish was obliged to rush his first string backfield into the game immediately to support the tottering tackles and guards. Trask, Blythe and Houghton did yeomen service during that hectic first half, with the Tatians in the grandstand alternately cheering their heads off and holding their breath in fear. Once the huge red-headed Western fullback plowed right through the Tate center and had a clear field for a touchdown, except for Crawford hovering half way to the goal line. When the hastily formed Western interference took Crawford neatly out, the Tate rooters gave all up for lost, till Chester Trask, coming down the field like a hundred-yard man, dived through the air at the red-head and brought him to earth five yards from the last chalk mark. Then miraculously Tate's line held, and the half ended 0-0.
Cavendish read the riot act between the halves. He tongue-lashed the linemen until they were ready to go out and stop the Twen​tieth Century Limited with their bare chests, if necessary. They were like new and inspired men during the second half. Moreover, the Western backfield having extended a prodigious effort in the first part of the game, were tired.
Tate, holding their opponents, secured possession of the ball. The "Big Four" got under way. Crawford, always especially good in a tight game, manipulated the Tate backs like a master. The home team punched over for a touchdown and the game ended 6-0.
It developed that Crawford's work was all the more remarkable because he had been playing the entire second half with a wrenched ankle, sustained when he was violently set upon by three Western interferers on the occasion of the red-headed fullback's sensational run. The Tate line came out of the game in a battered condition also. Cavendish took everybody who had played in the game to Lakeport for a rest over the week-end. They were a sober lot. Having met their only opponent of the season that shaped up anywhere near the strength of Union State, the Tate warriors had exhibited a sievelike line, a backfield that had only been able to get going in the last fifteen minutes of play and a general sloppiness that did not augur at all well. While the Tate hordes snake-danced and re​joiced on the field over the great victory, Mike Cavendish was devising means of making a real football team out of the victors.
There remained on the Tate schedule only two games: Douglas and Union State. Douglas was traditionally a weak team and was annually given the Saturday before the final great game with Union State to give the varsity players a breathing spell and the scrubs a taste of actual combat.
Returning from Lakeport on Tuesday, Cavendish rested his regulars for the remainder of the week, permitting Crawford and the other injured men to stay away from the field altogether. The failure of Crawford's swollen ankle to respond to Hughie Mulligan's treatment was a real worry to Cavendish. Crawford was the brains and mainspring of the Tate attack. With him out of the Union State game. Cavendish hated to think what would happen. He forced the star quarterback to forsake the ministrations of Mulligan and take to a cot in the college infirmary, with instructions to the doctor there to bring that bad ankle around into shape at any cost.
Then Cavendish set furiously to work developing his substitute quarterbacks into Crawford caliber, in case of an emergency. He scrimmaged the second and third teams, ​changing quarterbacks every ten minutes. He had "Dusty" Rhoades bring over all his quarterback material from his Freshman class team. Tate field swarmed with signal-callers. Cavendish saw only one possible successor to Crawford in the lot. A blond haired Senior named Tichenor who had been playing understudy for the injured man for the past three years. Tichenor was a good mechanical quarterback. He ran the team well, could catch punts and was a good tackier. But he lacked Crawford's fire and inspiration, Crawford's knack of making a tired team suddenly brace and play its head off, Crawford's uncanny ability to diagnose the opposition and trick it, Crawford's leaping start after catching a punt and his lethal straight-arm. There was only one Crawford. Just as there was only one Chester Trask.
On Friday, Cavendish shook his head and said sadly to Trask, "Quarterbacks ain't made; they're born."
"You've given everybody else a show. Why not try my Freshman?" suddenly asked Trask.
"Who—the demon Lamb?" said Cavendish. "Don't make me laugh, Cap."
"Well, there's only five minutes of practice left. Why not please the kid by letting him in."
The coach grunted. Then he countered ​slowly, "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll stick this fool kid in and show you how bad he really is. I'll give him some rope and let him hang himself. Tell him to take the place of that muttonhead that just gummed the play for the third team."
Trask, watching with Cavendish from the side lines the scrimmage between the second and third elevens, walked over to the bench-warming Harold and said crisply, "Jump out there in Bell's place."
Harold looked actually frightened. "You mean—" he started to stammer.
"Yes. Snap into it." The Freshman had peeled off his sweater and had started on a dead run for the struggling scrimmagers when Trask called him sharply back. "You don't know the signals, do you?" said Trask. "Well, listen sharp then. Two plays will be enough for you to try." And he rapidly revealed two sets of the varsity's mystic rush numbers. Then Trask resumed his place beside Cavendish.
The third team was about to put the ball into play as Harold rushed up to the assistant coach acting as referee and reported breathlessly, "Substitute for Bell," as he had heard so many others announce themselves. The referee blew the whistle just in time. Harold took the headguard of the banished ​Bell amid the curious but silent faces of the perspiring players and stooped behind the center. He wished now that he had waited longer to digest the signals given him by Trask. Somehow they did not seem so clear out here.
"7—25—4—5," he barked in a good imitation of Crawford. He took the ball cleanly from the snapperback. The opposing lines clashed. The third team backfield drove toward the line. Harold turned to plant the ball safely in the abdomen of his right halfback. But no halfback appeared. Instead, the second team's right tackle, catapulting through the line, tackled Harold fiercely and nailed him to the spot. As the Freshman arose he knew that he had done something wrong. The third string left halfback quickly confirmed this.
"Where was the ball?" that muddy-faced worthy shouted with unnecessary loudness.
"Why—that wasn't your signal. It was the other—"
"It wasn't! Why don't you learn the signals before you come out here losing the ball for us? We could have had a touchdown, too. Only two yards to gain to make first down. It's a shame! You play in back of the line there now. I'll lay back for punts."
Chastened, Harold obeyed. danced ​around behind his own left tackle while the second team quarterback hurled two useless plunges into the line. A third plunge was sent directly toward Harold's position. There was a sharp thud of canvas and human flesh meeting. Brief milling around. Then suddenly a sharp cry. A fumble. And, taking a freak bound, the ball shot clear of the mêlée and out upon the cinder track bordering the field. Harold, the only man free, tore after the pigskin, dived at it, hugged it, and, executing perfectly the famous Trask recovery, was on his feet and on his way down the field. The referee's whistle shrilled. But Harold did not even slow up. He stopped only when Mike Cavendish's husky form, arms raised aloft menacingly, halted him.
"Where do you get that stuff—running with an out-of-bounds ball?" shouted Cavendish.
"Why—I—" started Harold, blood trickling slowly down from a cut or two where the cinders had pierced his skin.
"Oh, go along into the locker room," said Mike impatiently. He turned and blew his whistle. The practice was over for the day.
Cavendish turned to Chester Trask and said sadly, "You see—once a boob, always a boob."
"Oh, he didn't do so badly," defended Chester. "I only gave him the signals a minute before he went in. He had no chance to ​learn them. And you've got to admit he picked that ball up nicely. And there were no linesmen there to let him know the track was out of bounds."
"I'd sooner put 'Blind Pete' in the game than that fool Freshman," insisted sour Mike Cavendish.
As for Harold, under the shower in the locker room he felt like drowning himself. His only chance of the season, and he had muffed it!
The next afternoon Douglas College gave Tate the scare of their lives. Coming to the Stadium with a team heavily padded with "ringers" and determined to win by hook or crook, this small two-building college treated Mike Cavendish to one of the worst hours of his life. The Tate line was again weak. The backs were sluggish, Tichenor, at quarterback, failed to strike any spark in his ball-carriers. Only in the last quarter did the superior Tate coaching tell. Then Blythe and Trask went over for a touchdown apiece. The final score was Tate 13, Douglas 0. Velie, end, and Woolsey, tackle, came out of the game limping badly, to add to Mike's woes. With neither of the varsity guards able to even start the game, owing to injuries received in the Western game, this brought the Tate casualty list up to five. This included Crawford, who ​watched the game in civilian clothes from the bench beside Harold. However, the infirmary doctor had assured Cavendish that morning that his star quarterback, barring unexpected setbacks, would be able to start in the Union State struggle.
And so, the following Monday, began the final preparations at Tate Field for the biggest event of the Fall season, the Tate-Union State game.