The Guarded Heights
"We've got to have him next week," Stringham said, "but this game isn't
won by a long shot."
"What's the matter with me?" George asked. "I'll play."
He heard a man near by remark:
"He's got the colour of a Latin Salutatorian."
They let him go back, nevertheless, and at the start he suffered his
first serious injury. He knew when he made the tackle that the strap of
his headgear snapped. He felt the leather slide from his head,
experienced the crushing of many bodies, had a brief conviction that the
sun had been smothered. His next impression was of bare, white walls in
a shaded room. His brain held no record of the hushing of the multitude
when he had remained stretched in his darkness on the trampled grass; of
the increasing general fear while substitutes had carried him from the
field on a stretcher; or of the desertion of the game by the Baillys, by
Betty and her father, by Wandel, the inscrutable, even by the
revolutionary Allen, by a score of others, who had crowded the entrance
of the dressing room asking hushed questions, and a few moments later
had formed behind him a silent and frightened procession as he had been
carried to the infirmary. Mrs. Bailly told him about it.
"I saw tears in Betty's eyes," she said, softly, "through my own. It was
so like a funeral march."
"And you missed the end of the game?" George asked.
She nodded.
"When my husband knew Harvard had scored he said, 'That wouldn't have
happened if George had been there.' And it wouldn't have."
But all George could think of was:
"Squibs missed half a game for me, and there were tears in Betty's
eyes."
Tears, because he had suggested the dreadful protagonist of a funeral
march.
His period of consciousness was brief. He drifted into the darkness once
more, accompanied by that extraordinary and seductive vision of Betty in
tears. It came with him late the next morning back into the light.
Sylvia's portrait was locked in a drawer far across the campus. What
superb luxury to lie here with such a recollection, forecasting no near
physical effort, quite relaxed, dreaming of Betty, who had always meant
rest as Sylvia had always meant unquiet and absorbing struggle.
He judged it wise to pretend to be asleep, but hunger at last made him
stir and threw him into an anxious agitation of examinations by
specialists, of conferences with coaches, and of doubts and prayers and
exhortations from everyone admitted to the room; for even the
specialists were Princeton men. They were non-committal. It had been a
nasty blow. There had been some concussion. They would guarantee him in
two weeks, but of course he didn't have that long. One old fellow turned
suspiciously on Green.
"He was overworked when he got hurt."
"I'll be all right," George kept saying, "if you'll fix a headgear to
cover my new soft spot."
And finally:
"I'll be all right if you'll only leave me alone."
Yet, when they had, Squibs came, totally forgetful of his grave problems
of the classes, foreseeing no disaster nearly as serious as a defeat by
Yale--"now that we've done so well against Harvard, and would have done
better if you hadn't got hurt"--limping the length of the sick-room
until the nurse lost her temper and drove him out. Then Goodhue arrived
as the herald of Josiah Blodgett, of all people.
"This does me good," George pled with the nurse.
And it did. For the first time in a number of weeks he felt amused as
Blodgett with a pinkish silk handkerchief massaged his round, unhealthy
face.
"Thought you didn't like football," George said.
"Less reason to like it now," Blodgett jerked out. "Only sensible place
to play it is the front yard of a hospital. Thought I'd come down and
watch you and maybe look up what was left afterward."
George fancied a wavering of the little eyes in Goodhue's direction, and
became even more amused, for he believed a more calculating man than
Blodgett didn't live; yet there seemed a real concern in the man's
insistence that George, with football out of the way, should spend a
recuperative Thanksgiving at his country place. George thought he would.
He was going to work again for Blodgett next summer.
Betty and Mrs. Bailly were the last callers the nurse would give in to,
although she must have seen how they helped, one in a chair on either
side of the bed; and it was difficult not to look at only one. In her
eyes he sought for a souvenir of those tears, and wanted to tell her how
sorry he was; but he wasn't really sorry, and anyway she mustn't guess
that he knew. Why had Mrs. Bailly bothered to tell him at all? Could her
motherly instinct hope for a coming together so far beyond belief? His
memory of the remote portrait reminded him that it was incredible in
every way. He sighed. Betty beckoned Mrs. Bailly and rose.
"Don't go," George begged, aware that he ought to urge her to go.
"Betty was having tea with me," Mrs. Bailly offered.
"I would have asked to be brought anyway," Betty said, openly. "You
frightened us yesterday. We've all wanted to find out the truth."
There was in her eyes now at least a reminiscent pain.
"Don't worry," he said, "I'll take care of Lambert Planter for you after
all."
She stooped swiftly and offered her hand.
"You'll take care of yourself. It would be beastly if they let you play
at the slightest risk."
He grasped her hand. The touch of her flesh, combined with such a
memory, made him momentarily forgetful. He held her hand too long, too
firmly. He saw the colour waver in her pale cheeks. He let her hand go,
but he continued to watch her eyes until they turned uncertainly to Mrs.
Bailly.
When they had left he slept again. He slept away his listlessness of the
past few weeks. As he confided to his callers, who were confined to an
hour in the afternoon, he did nothing but sleep and eat. He was more
content than he had been since his indifferent days, long past, at
Oakmont. All these people had deserted the game for him when he was no
longer of any use to the game. Then he had acquired, even for such
clashing types as Wandel and Allen, a value that survived his football.
He had advanced on a road where he had not consciously set his feet. He
treasured that thought. Next Saturday he would reward these friends, for
he was confident he could do it now. By Wednesday he was up and dressed,
feeling better than he had since the commencement of the season. If only
they didn't hurt his head again! The newspapers helped there, too. If he
played, they said, it would be under a severe handicap. He smiled,
knowing he was far fitter, except for his head, than he had been the
week before.
Until the squad left for New Haven he continued to live in the
infirmary, watching the light practice of the last days without even
putting on his football clothes.
"The lay-off won't hurt me," he promised.
Stringham and Green were content to accept his judgment.
As soon as he was able he went to his room and got Sylvia's portrait. He
disciplined himself for his temporary weakness following the accident.
He tried to force from his memory the sentiment aroused by Betty's tears
through the thought that he approached his first real chance to impress
Sylvia. He could do it. He was like an animal insufficiently exercised,
straining to be away.
XXVI
He alone, as the squad dressed in the gymnasium, displayed no signs of
misgiving. Here was the climax of the season. All the better. The larger
the need the greater one's performance must be. But the others didn't
share that simple faith.
He enjoyed the ride to the field in the cold, clear air, through
hurrying, noisy, and colourful crowds. He liked the impromptu cheers
they gave the team, sometimes himself particularly.
In the field dressing-room, like men condemned, the players received
their final instructions. Already they were half beaten because they
were going to face Yale--all but George, who knew he was going to play
better than ever, because he was going to face one Yale man, Lambert
Planter, with Sylvia in the stands. He kept repeating to himself:
"I will! I _will_!"
He laughed at the others.
"There aren't any wild beasts out there--just eleven men like ourselves.
If there's going to be any wild-beasting let's do it to them."
They trotted through an opening into a vast place walled by men and
women. At their appearance the walls seemed to disintegrate, and a
chaotic noise went up as if from that ponderous convulsion.
George dug his toes into the moist turf and looked about. Sylvia was
there, a tiny unit in the disturbed enclosure, but if she had sat alone
it would have made no difference. His incentive would have been
unaltered.
Again the convulsion, and the Yale team was on the field. George singled
Planter out--the other man that Sylvia would watch to-day. He did look
fit, and bigger than last year. George shrugged his shoulders.
"I will!"
Nevertheless, he was grateful for his week of absolute rest. He smiled
as the crowd applauded his long kicks to the backs. He wasn't exerting
himself now.
The two captains went to the centre of the field while the teams trotted
off. Lambert came up to George.
"The return match," he said, "and you won't want another."
George grinned.
"I've heard it's the Yale system to try to frighten the young opponent."
"You'll know more about the Yale system after the first half," Lambert
said, and walked on.
George realized that Lambert hadn't smiled once. In his face not a trace
of the old banter had shown. Yale system or Yale spirit, it possessed
visible qualities of determination and peril, but he told himself he
could lick Lambert and smile while doing it.
At the whistle he was off like a race horse, never losing sight of
Lambert until he was reasonably sure the ball wouldn't get to him. They
clashed personally almost at the start. Yale had the ball, and Lambert
took it, and tore through the line, and lunged ahead with growing speed
and power. George met him head on. They smashed to the ground. As he
hugged Lambert there for a moment George whispered:
"Nothing fantastic about that, is there? Now get past me, Mr. Planter."
The tackle had been vicious. Lambert rose rather slowly to his feet.
George's kicks outdistanced Lambert's. Once he was forced by a Princeton
fumble, and a march of thirty yards by Yale, to kick from behind his own
goal line. He did exert himself then, and he outguessed the two men
lying back. As a result Yale put the ball in play on her own thirty-yard
line, while the stands marvelled, the Princeton side demonstratively,
yet George, long before the half was over, became conscious of something
not quite right. Since beyond question he was the star of his team he
received a painstaking attention from the Yale men. There is plenty of
legitimate roughness in football, and it can be concentrated. In every
play he was reminded of the respect Yale had for him. Perpetually he
tried to spare his head, but it commenced to ache abominably, and after
a tackle by Lambert, to repay him for some of his own deadly and painful
ones, he got up momentarily dazed.
"Let's do something now," he pled with Goodhue, when, thanks to his
kicks, they had got the ball at midfield. He wanted a score before this
silly weakness could put him out. With a superb skill he went after a
score. His forward passes to Goodhue and the ends were well-conceived,
beautifully executed, and frequently successful. Many times he took the
ball himself, fighting through the line or outside of tackle to run
against Lambert or another back. Once he got loose for a run of fifteen
yards, dodging or shaking off half the Yale team while the stands with
primeval ferocity approved and prayed.
That made it first down on Yale's five-yard line. He was absolutely