Barry Locke, half-back
say, you called a frog an insect right at the first of it!”
Peaches gave way to a fresh spasm of emotion, clinging to Zo’s chair.
Mrs. Lyle was saying to Mrs. Anderson:
“Well, I did think it was sort of―― But so many things go on nowadays――
And coming right out of the radio machine like that――”
“Don’t――don’t say any more, Toby!” begged Peaches, wiping his eyes.
“I――I can’t stand it!”
“Well, well!” Mr. Benjy chuckled admiringly; “quite a――er――quite a
hoax, Mother!”
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Lyle agreed. “And I don’t see yet how Barry made that
music. It sounded so natural that――”
“But, my dear, the music was――er――that was real,” explained Mr. Benjy.
“The deception began with the――er――the speech by the professor.”
“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Lyle. “So that’s how it was! Well,
I’m sure――”
“Please, Barry, may I have the――the speech?” asked Betty. “I’d love it.”
“I guess so,” said Barry. “If Peaches doesn’t want it. It was so dark
back there I couldn’t see the writing half the time. That’s why I sort
of muddled it.”
“But where were you when we came in?” asked Betty. “I’m sure I didn’t
see you behind the table, for I looked there. Walter showed us where
the wires went.”
“Under it,” chuckled Barry. “And there wasn’t much room there, either!”
* * * * *
Cloudy sky and chill winds greeted Barry when he awoke the next
morning. Mount Sippick had hid its head under a leaden-hued canopy of
mist. Leaves were scurrying along the road and overnight, or so it
seemed, Brazer’s marsh had turned to russet and crimson. But it was
fine football weather, and that afternoon practice went with more vim
than ever before that season. The squad was noticeably smaller and
Barry learned that the Major had made a cut the day before.
“Where have you been?” asked Ike Boardman, who supplied the information.
“The notice was on the board yesterday after practice.”
“I didn’t see it,” said Barry. “Did you――you didn’t happen to――I mean
was my name down?”
“Yours? No, of course not. Don’t you worry, Locke. I’ll bet a hat the
Major will have you in the line-up before long. He’s got a crush on
you, I guess. No offense, Locke. I’ll say you’ve got as much right
there as Gissing or Allen.”
“Allen!” exclaimed Barry. “You mean Clyde Allen?”
“Sure. That’s the only Allen we’ve got, isn’t it? What’s so surprising?”
“Gee! I wouldn’t like to――” Barry lapsed into troubled silence.
“Oh, I see!” chuckled the substitute quarter. “Allen’s a side-kick of
yours, isn’t he? Well, listen, kid: friendship ceases on the football
field. If you can beat him for a half-back job you go ahead and do it
as hard as you can. It’s up to him, Locke. I believe you can do it,
too. He can’t punt, can he? I’ve never known him to, anyway.” Boardman
chuckled. “Oh, boy! and wouldn’t it get his goat! Your friend Allen,
Locke, thinks he’s a regular terror in the back-field. Some one ought
to tell him to stop fancying himself and get to work.”
Barry had hitherto considered Ike Boardman rather a sensible chap,
but now it was apparent that he possessed very poor judgment. To say
that Clyde was in danger of losing out to him, Barry, proved it. That
was a ridiculous notion, evidently born of Ike’s lack of appreciation
of Clyde. Barry almost, but not quite, wished that Major Loring had
included his name in the list of those released from the squad. It
would have made it much easier to face Clyde presently. Clyde was
getting awfully sort of distant nowadays, and Barry didn’t like that.
However, such reflections didn’t last long, for Major Loring drove the
players hard that day, and when one is plunging at a canvas dummy that
is being drawn creakily past on its rusted cable, or is concentrating
on a series of numbers in the effort to determine what they mean to a
substitute right half-back, there is little opportunity for thought on
other matters.
For the first time in a drill Barry was called on to punt that
afternoon, and although he was inwardly nervous as he retired to
kicking position and was over long in getting the ball away, he did
well enough. On two subsequent occasions he bettered his effort
considerably. When scrimmaging began he sat once more on the bench,
with Clyde a dozen spaces beyond and seemingly unaware of his
existence. He was glad when Clyde was summoned by the coach.
Just before the practice game was over Barry was called in, together
with four or five other bench-warmers, and had a few minutes of real
battle. He was given the ball but once and then managed to get some
three yards off the first-squad right tackle. A minute later he missed
a play and so was instrumental in securing a four-yard gain by Demille,
for which he received a merited dressing-down from the Major. After
that unfortunate incident he was not sorry when the horn squawked an
end to the session.
He went along with the team on Saturday, one, and perhaps the least
important member, of a squad of thirty-two players. Major Loring used
twenty-eight of the thirty-two during four twelve-minute periods, but
was not able to avoid defeat. Greenville Academy showed more advanced
football than did the visitors, using several complicated plays that
Broadmoor had learned no defense for. The final score was 14 to 6,
Greenville inflicting seven points on an already vanquished opponent in
the final moments of the last period.
Barry, viewing the contest all through from the side-line, alternately
hoped and despaired, rejoiced and groaned, and in the end took the
defeat much to heart and didn’t recover his spirits until he had
experienced the cheering effects of supper. The fact, gleaned from the
Sunday paper the next morning, that Hoskins had fairly romped away with
her game that afternoon brought no encouragement to the supporters of
the Purple-and-Gray. Pessimism and criticism were rife throughout the
school.
Monday brought back the daily grind of lessons and practice. The
weather relented and provided some warm days. Barry found that he had
become a regular member of Squad 3 and that Major Loring was giving him
a flattering if embarrassing amount of attention. The punting practice
continued and the school took cognizance of the fact that the Major was
engaged in developing a fellow named Locke, a Third-Class chap, into an
understudy for Tip Cartright and Ira Haviland; Barry discovered that he
had become a person of some small consequence. Fellows who had a month
before appeared unaware of his existence now took pains to nod to him,
and his circle of speaking acquaintances grew rapidly. All of which
pleased him. And then, on Friday, the impossible came to pass!
CHAPTER XI
MURRAY SCHOOL THREATENS
Friday was a day of leisure for many of the squad. The afternoon’s
proceedings began with a blackboard lecture in the gymnasium which all
attended, but after that the first-string players were through for the
day. For the others the scrimmage started late and twilight was already
threatening when the substitutes kicked off to the third. Clyde was at
right half on the subs and Barry found himself filling a like position
in the opposing line-up.
For some time the battle waged with neither side able to gain much
ground. Barry was called on for several punts, and although he had one
blocked, most of them were creditable. Not until darkness threatened
was the dead-lock broken. Then, after the subs had kicked out on their
own forty-six yards, and two attempts at the enemy had failed, Brush
called for kick formation and sent Barry back.
But the following signals didn’t call for a punt, and Barry thought
for an instant that he had misunderstood them. Then he quickly decided
that he hadn’t and, with his heart beating fast, held forth his arms.
This time the line held and the ball came true. Barry went through
the motions of punting and then swung to his left and with the ball
tightly clasped sped off toward the opposing right end, already coming
through. But Brush charged the end and Barry turned in. For an instant
he thought himself done for, but magically the subs parted, under the
persuasion of some really clever interference, and he was through. A
sub back charged him, arms wide for the tackle, but Barry feinted,
whirled, and passed him safely; and as he did so he saw that the player
was Clyde.
There was still danger from the subs’ safety man, but that danger
was soon over. Gissing had somehow disposed of his man and was now
spurting at Barry’s right, and it was Gissing and not Barry who met
the fierce tackle of Ike Boardman. The two merged in one confused blur
in the twilight as Barry went on. Footsteps pursued and voices shouted
encouragement or dismay, but Barry had only to keep the pace he had set
over five gray lines, and that he did. Well, perhaps not quite that,
for past the last yards his feet went slower, but he was over the goal
line well ahead of the nearest desperate pursuer.
Third got quite a thrill from that touchdown, and Pitkin, a six-foot
Second Classman with a voice that always shot up into a soprano under
stress of emotion, hauled Barry to his feet and piped shrilly: “Ata
kid! Ata kid! Pretty runnin’, Locke!” And Brush, panting hard, grinned
approval and would have hustled his men back to the five-yard line for
the try-for-point had not the Major intervened.
“That’s all for to-day, fellows,” he announced. “Never mind the goal,
Brush. It’s too dark for any more.”
In the locker-room Barry stole a troubled glance at Clyde. The latter,
pulling off his togs, was talking to Hal Stearns in undertones. His
lowered countenance looked to Barry most forbidding, and not until
Clyde was through the door that led to the showers did Barry take his
towel from a hook and follow. He didn’t want to meet Clyde just then.
Short of the doorway he was halted by Major Loring.
“Oh, Locke,” said the coach, “you didn’t get in any punting practice
to-day, did you? Better take a half-hour in the morning. Think you can
make it?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll have plenty of time to-morrow.”
“Good. Noble will help you. Tell him what time you’ll be out. And
try to keep that leg stiff, Locke, that’s your trouble now. You’re
improving, but I want to see you do a lot better yet. That was a nice
sneak you made, by the way. I saw that you hung to your interference
very cleverly.”
“Well, if I did,” laughed Barry, “I didn’t know I was doing it, Major.”
The Major smiled.
“All the better,” he said. “If you do a thing instinctively you’re not
likely to forget to do it. Boardman thinks he ought to have you on his
squad to do the punting, so to-morrow you join the subs. Good night.”
“Join the subs”! The words repeated themselves long after the icy water
was hissing over his bare shoulders. That could mean only one thing;
that he was to become Clyde’s rival for right-half position. What would
Clyde say? Gee! what _would_ he!
To his relief, Clyde had left the locker-room when he regained it. Of
course he would have to see Clyde, but he was willing enough to have
the meeting postponed. He went back to his room in a troubled state of
mind that remained with him until he had reached the supper table. As
usual, food proved cheering, and he discovered almost to his surprise
that he had brought a very vigorous appetite with him. Before long he
had put his problem aside and was chatting light-heartedly with Zo and
the others.
After the meal, when he saw that Clyde’s place at table was vacant and
knew that the right moment for finding that youth at home had arrived,
he recalled the necessity for looking up something in the library, and,
accompanied by Zo, sought the reference room and spent a good twenty
minutes delving into tomes. When he at last climbed the stairway in