Left Tackle Thayer

Chapter XII. Penny Loses His Temper

What annoyed Brimfield Academy most about that beating was the fact that Morgan's School was a stranger. Being defeated in early season was nothing to be sore about; it happened every year, sometimes several times; and the score of 6 to 3 was far from humiliating; but to be defeated by a team that no one had ever heard about was horribly annoying. Of course Tracey Black insisted to all who would listen that Morgan's, instead of being unknown to fame, was in reality a strong team with a fine record behind it and an enviable reputation in its own part of the world. But Tracey didn't convince anyone, I think, and the school continued to be disgruntled for the better part of a week, or possibly until the Varsity went away the following Saturday and won a clean-cut victory from Benton Military Academy. Last year the two schools had played a no-score tie game and consequently the Maroon-and-Grey's victory this year was more appreciated.

Meanwhile Marvin had settled his wager at the village soda fountain and had listened with commendable patience to Tracey's "I-told-you-so" remarks. All that Marvin said was, when Tracey had rubbed it in sufficiently: "There's just one thing you want to do, Tracey, and that is get a date with those guys for next year. I won't be here, but it'll do me a whole lot of good to hear that we have rammed that old touchdown down their throats with one or two more for good measure."

"Say, you're not sore or anything, are you?" laughed Tracey.

"Never you mind. I can take a licking as well as the next chap, but when a team works a sleight-of-hand gag on you, that's something different yet!"

"I'll bet anything!" said Steve Edwards, "that they had two balls that day! If they didn't, I'm blessed if I can see how they got that one across the field there."

"Maybe that chap who made the touchdown had a string tied to it," suggested Still. "That wouldn't be a bad scheme, eh?"

"I don't know how they did it," said Marvin soberly, setting down his empty glass with a last fond look, "but if you take my advice, Tracey, you'll have it understood next year that there's to be no miracles!"

Clint regretted that defeat, but it didn't affect his spirits any. As a matter of fact, Clint had reached a state of second team patriotism that precluded his being heart-broken about anything save a humiliating beating of the second. And most of the other members of Mr. Boutelle's constituency felt the same way. It was regrettable to have the school team worsted, but the main thing in life was the glory of the second. If Coach Robey had suggested that Clint should throw in his lot with the 'varsity just then Clint might have felt flattered but he would probably have gently and firmly declined the promotion. "Boots," in short, had in a bare fortnight endowed his charges with an enthusiasm and esprit de corps that was truly remarkable. "Anyone would think," said Amy one day when Clint had been singing the praises of the second team, "that you dubs were the only football players in school. Ever hear of the 'varsity team, Clint? Of course I may be mistaken, but I've been given to understand that they have one or two fairly good men on the 'varsity."

Clint grinned. "That's what they tell you, Amy!"

"Well, of all the swank!" exclaimed the other incredulously.

"What's that?"

"Side, swell-headedness, dog, intolerable conceit--er--"

"That'll do. You talk like a dictionary of synonyms."

"You talk like a blooming idiot! Why, don't you know that the second team is nothing on earth but the 'goat' for the 'varsity?"

"Yes, and the 'goat' butts pretty hard sometimes," chuckled Clint.

Amy threw up his hands in despair. "You fellows are so stuck on yourselves," he said finally, "that I suppose you'll be expecting Robey to discharge the 'varsity and let you play against Claflin!"

"He might do worse, I dare say," returned Clint carelessly.

"Might do--Here, I can't stand this! I'm going out! Where's my cap?" And Amy fled.

Clint didn't see a great deal of Amy those days except during study hour, for Amy was busy with the Fall Tennis Tournament. Besides playing in it he was managing it, and managing it entailed much visiting in the evenings, for the tournament insisted on getting horribly mixed up every afternoon owing to the failure of fellows to play when they were supposed to, and it was one of Amy's duties to hunt up the offenders and threaten them with all sorts of awful fates if they didn't arise at some unseemly hour the next morning and play off the postponed match before Chapel. Clint went over to the courts one afternoon before practice in the hope of seeing his room-mate perform. But Amy was dashing around with a score-sheet in hand and the matches in progress were not exciting.

"Who's going to win?" asked Clint when Amy had subsided long enough to be spoken to. "Or, rather, who's going to get second place?"

"Second place? Why second place?" asked Amy suspiciously.

"Just wondered. Of course, as you're running the thing you'll naturally get first place, Amy. I was curious to know who you'd decided on for second man."

Amy laughed. "Well, it will probably be Holt, if he can spare enough time from football practice to play. He's had a match with Lewis on for two days now. They've each won a set and Holt can't play in the afternoon and Lewis refuses to get up early enough in the morning. And there you are!"

"Why don't you award the match to yourself by default?" inquired Clint innocently.

"To myself? How the dickens--Oh, get out of here!"

Clint got out and as he made his way across to the second team gridiron he heard Amy's impassioned voice behind him.

"Say, Grindell, where under the Stars and Stripes have you been? Lee has been waiting here for you ever since two o'clock! You fellows certainly give me a pain! Now, look here--"

Clint chuckled. "Funny," he reflected, "to get so excited about a tennis tournament. Now, if it was football--"

Clint shook his head over the vagaries of his friend and very soon forgot them in the task of trying to keep the troublesome Robbins where he belonged, which, in Clint's judgment, was among the second team substitutes. That was a glorious afternoon for the second team, for they held the 'varsity scoreless in the first period and allowed them only the scant consolation of a field-goal in the second. "Boutelle's Babies," as some waggish first team man had labelled them, went off in high feather and fancied themselves more than ever.

Clint smiled at himself all the way to his room afterwards. He had played good football and had thrice won praise from "Boots" that afternoon. Even Jack Innes had gone out of his way to say a good word. He had clearly outplayed Saunders, the 'varsity left tackle, on attack and had held his own against the opposing end on defence. More than that, he had once nailed the redoubtable Kendall well behind the line, receiving an extremely hard look from the half-back, and had on two occasions got down the field under the punt in time to tackle the catcher. Yes, Clint was very well satisfied with himself today, so well pleased that the fact that he had bruised his left knee so that he had to limp a little as he went upstairs didn't trouble him a mite. He hoped Amy would be back from that silly tennis tournament so that he might tell him all about it. But Amy wasn't back, as he discovered presently. What met his eyes as he opened the door from the staircase well, however, put Amy quite out of his mind for awhile.

The door of his own room was closed, but the doors of 13 and 15 were open, and midway between them a rather startling drama was being enacted. The participants were Penny Durkin, Harmon Dreer and a smaller boy whose name afterwards transpired to be Melville. Melville was no longer an active participant, though, when Clint appeared unnoted on the scene and paused across the corridor in surprise. It was Penny and Harmon Dreer who held the centre of the stage.

"What are you butting in for?" demanded Dreer angrily. "I'll cuff the kid if I want to. You get out of here, Penny."

"You weren't cuffing him," replied Penny hotly. "You were twisting his arm and making him cry. Now you let the kid alone, Dreer. If you want to try that sort of thing you try it on me."

"All right!" Dreer stepped forward and shot his closed fist into Penny's face. The blow missed its full force, since Penny, seeing it coming, dodged so that it caught him on the side of the chin. But it was enough to send him staggering to the wall.

"You keep out of it, you skinny monkey!" shouted Dreer. "All you're good for is to make rotten noises on that beastly fiddle of yours! Want more, do you?"

Penny evidently did, for he came back with a funny sidelong shuffle, arms extended, and Dreer, perhaps surprised at the other's pluck, moved cautiously away.

"You've had what was coming to you, Durkin," he growled. "Now you keep away from me or you'll get worse. Keep away, I tell you!"

But Penny Durkin suddenly jumped and landed, beating down the other's guard. Dreer staggered back, ducking his head, and Penny shot a long arm around in a swinging blow that caught the other under his ear and Dreer's knees doubled up under him and he sprawled on the threshold of his room.

"Durkin!" cried Clint. "Stop it!"

Penny turned and observed Clint quite calmly, although Clint could see that he was trembling in every nerve and muscle.

"I'm not going to touch him again," replied Penny.

"I should think not!" Clint leaned over the motionless Dreer anxiously. "Here, take hold of him and get him inside. You help, too, kid, whatever your name is. Get him on the bed and shut the door. That was an awful punch you gave him, Durkin."

"Yes, he can't fight," replied Penny unemotionally, as he helped carry the burden to the bed. "He'll be all right in a minute. I jabbed him under the ear. It doesn't hurt you much; just gives you a sort of a headache. Wet a towel and dab it on his face."

"What the dickens was it all about, anyway?" asked Clint as he followed instructions.

"Well, he was twisting young Melville's arm and the kid was yelling and--"

"You'd have yelled yourself," muttered the boy, with a sniffle.

"I came out and told him to stop it and he didn't. So I pulled the kid away from him and he got mad and punched me in the cheek. So I went for him. He's a mean pup, anyway, Dreer is."

The subject of the compliment stirred and opened his eyes with a groan. Then he looked blankly at Clint. "Hello," he muttered. "What's the--" At that moment his gaze travelled on to Penny and he scowled.

"All right, Durkin," he said softly. "I'll get even with you, you--you--"

"Cut it out," advised Clint. "How do you feel?"

"All right. Tell him to get out of my room. And that kid, too."

Penny nodded and retired, herding Melville before him, followed by the scowling regard of Dreer.

Clint tossed the towel aside. "I'll beat it, too, I guess," he said. "You'll be all right if you lie still awhile. So long."

"Much obliged," muttered Dreer, not very graciously. "I'll get square with that ugly pup, though, Thayer. You hear what I tell you!"

"Oh, call it off," replied Clint cheerfully. "You each had a whack. What more do you want? So long, Dreer."

"Long," murmured the other, closing his eyes. "Tell him to--look out--Thayer."

Clint's first impulse was to seek Penny, but before he reached the door of Number 13 the strains of the fiddle began to be heard and Clint, with a shrug and a smile, sought his own room.

He spread his books on the table, resolved to do a half-hour's stuffing before supper. But his thoughts wandered far from lessons. The scrap in the corridor, Penny's unexpected ferocity, the afternoon's practice, the folks at home, all these subjects and many others engaged his mind. Beyond the wall on one side Penny was scraping busily on his violin. In the pauses between exercises Clint could hear Harmon Dreer moving about behind the locked door that separated Numbers 14 and 15. Then the door from the well swung open, footsteps crossed the hall and Amy appeared, racket in hand. After that there was no more chance of study, for Clint had to tell of the fracas between Penny and Dreer while Amy, stretched in the Morris chair, listened interestedly. When Clint ended Amy whistled softly and expressively.

"Think of old Penny Durkin scrapping like that!" he said. Then, with a smile, he added regretfully: "Wish I'd seen it! Handed him a regular knock-out, eh? What do you know about that? Guess I'll go in and shake hands with him!"

"Dreer?" asked Clint innocently.

"Dreer! Yah! Penny. Someone ought to thank him on behalf of the school. Who was the kid? Charlie Melville?"

"I didn't hear his first name," replied Clint, nodding.

"He's a young rotter. Dare say he deserved what Dreer was giving him, although I don't believe in arm-twisting. Dreer ought to have spanked him."

"Then you don't think Penny had any right to interfere?"

"Don't I? You bet I do! Anyone has a right to interfere with Harmon Dreer. Anyone who hands him a jolt is a public benefactor."

"I fear you're a trifle biased," laughed Clint.

"Whatever that is, I am," responded Amy cheerfully. "What was Melville doing to arouse the gentleman's wrath?"

"I didn't hear the details. Dreer assured me twice that he was going to get even with Penny, though."

"Piffle! He hasn't enough grit! Penny should worry! Say, what are you making faces about?"

"I--it's my knee. I got a whack on it and it sort of hurts when I bend it."

"Why didn't you get it rubbed, you silly chump. Let's see it."

"Oh, it's nothing. It'll be all right tomorrow."

"Let--me--see--it!" commanded Amy sternly. "Well, I'd say you did whack it! Stretch out there and I'll rub it. Oh, shut up! I've rubbed more knees than--than a centipede ever saw! Besides, it won't do to have you laid up, Clint, old scout. Think of what it would mean to the second team--and the school--and the nation! I shudder to contemplate it. That where it is? I thought so from your facial contortions. Lie still, can't you? How do you suppose I can--rub if--you--twist like--that?"

"Don't be so--so plaguey enthusiastic!" gasped Clint.

"Nonsense! Grin and bear it. Think what it would mean if you were lost to the team!"

"Oh, dry up," grumbled Clint. "How did you get on with your silly tennis today?"

"All right. We'll finish up tomorrow, I guess. I play Kennard in the morning. He's a snap."

"Why don't you pick out someone who can play? Don't win the tournament too easily, Amy. They'll get onto you."

"That's so, but I can't afford to take any chances. There you are! Now you're all right. Up, Guards, and at them!"

"I'm not a guard; I'm a tackle," corrected Clint as he experimentally bent his knee up and down. "It does feel better, Amy. Thanks."

"Of course it does. I'm a fine little massewer. Let's go and eat."

But the next morning that knee was stiff and painful and although Amy again administered to it, it was all Clint could do to hobble to Wendell for breakfast. "Boots" sternly demanded an immediate examination and an hour later Clint was bandaged about his knee like a mummy and told to keep away from practice for several days and not to use his leg more than he had to. He limped out of the Physical Director's room in the gymnasium with the aid of a cane which Mr. Conklin had donated and with a dark scowl on his face.

"Of all the mean luck!" he muttered disgustedly. "Just when I was going well, too! Now, I suppose, Robbins will get my place, hang him! Bet you this settles me for the rest of the season!"