Quarter-Back Bates. Barbour Ralph Henry
my friend. What’s your name?”
“Bates,” answered Dick. He had already given it once, but perhaps the other hadn’t caught it. “I’m from Leonardville High.”
“Uh-huh. Played, have you?”
“Yes.” It seemed to Dick that any live, wide-awake football trainer should have been aware of the fact. “Yes, I’ve played quite a little.”
“Uh-huh. Well, you see the manager; he’s around here somewhere, or he was; he’ll look after you. Chandler! That’ll do for today. Jog the track once and go on in.” Billy Goode turned away to meet the remonstrances of a big, heavily-built youth who had been catching punts and returning them a little further along the field, leaving Dick a trifle ruffled. This was not just the sort of reception he had expected. Of course, it was understandable that the Philadelphia papers didn’t penetrate to Warne, Massachusetts, in which case the trainer wouldn’t have read of him, but it did seem that a fellow who had received offers from fourteen schools and colleges should have been heard of even in this corner of the world! Dick put the trainer down as a person of a low order of mentality.
He went into the stand and sat down there and watched the practice. Evidently most of the fellows at work were last year players, for they handled the ball in a knowing way that precluded their being beginners. No one who looked anything like a coach was on hand, but a dark-haired fellow of eighteen, perhaps, who appeared in command, was probably the captain. And a short, stocky, important-looking youth who had discarded his jacket and was wandering around in a very blue silk shirt was just as probably the manager. Dick didn’t seek him, for there would be plenty of time to do that tomorrow. At intervals the trainer summoned one of the candidates and sent him off, usually prescribing a round of the running track first. Dick was glad he did not have to swallow that medicine today, for the weather was extremely warm and humid. He thought that the candidates averaged both heavier and older than he had expected, and he wondered if by any chance his lack of weight would be against him. One of the quarter-backs out there, chasing a squad about in signal drill, was, however, no bigger than he, and possibly no older. Dick guessed he needn’t trouble about lack of weight. Quarters didn’t have to be big in order to make good. Presently the practice ended and he followed the squad toward the gymnasium and then went back to Sohmer and climbed the slate stairway to the second floor.
He remembered having closed the door of Number 14 on going out, and since it now stood wide open it was fair to assume that the unknown “S. G.” had returned, and Dick entered the study eager, in spite of his seeming indifference, to find out what Fate, in the shape of the school office, had assigned to him as a room-mate.
CHAPTER III
ROOM-MATES
The appearance of the study seemed to have been changed in his absence, and Dick’s second glance showed that the change was in the shape of several pictures on the wall, some books on one of the study tables and a large packing case in the centre of the floor from which emerged the corner of a brilliant blue cushion and the lower half of a boy. While Dick looked the rest of the youth emerged slowly until at last, somewhat flushed of face, he stood entirely revealed, clutching triumphantly a pair of battered running shoes. At that moment his eyes fell on Dick and a surprised and very pleasant smile came to his face. He tossed the shoes to the floor, dusted his hands by a simple expedient of rubbing them on his trousers, and nodded, stepping around a corner of the big box.
“Hello!” he said. “I suppose you’re Bates. My name’s Gard.”
He held out a hand and Dick took it as he answered: “Yes. Glad to meet you. We’re in here together, I take it.”
Gard nodded. “Yes. I got here this noon and helped myself to a desk, but I’m not particular which I have. Same about the beds. We can toss up, if you like.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Dick replied. “Suppose you take the first choice of a desk and I’ll take the bed I want. That suit?”
“Sure.” Gard was looking at Dick with frank interest, leaning against the packing case, his arms, on which he had rolled up the sleeves of a good-looking shirt, folded. “Yes, that’s fair enough. I took that desk because it happened to be nearest the box, and I’ll keep it.”
Dick laid his hat down and seated himself on the window-seat.
“It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” he said, looking about the study.
“Oh, big enough, isn’t it? It is one of the small ones, though. Some of the rooms on the front are corkers, Bates. I couldn’t afford one of those, though, and this is a lot better than the room I had last year in Goss.”
“Then you – you’re not a new fellow?”
Gard shook his head. “This is my second year. I’m in the Third Class. Are you?”
“Yes. I think I could have passed for the Fourth, but I guess I’d had to work mighty hard to keep up, and I want to play football, you see. So – ”
“Of course! There’s no sense rushing through things too much, Bates. If you’d gone into the Fourth you’d have been through just when you were beginning to like the school. You will like it, I’m sure.”
“I expect to. I had a brother here five or six years ago, and he’s always cracked it up high.”
“That so?” Gard pulled the blue cushion from the box and tossed it across the room. “Put that behind you. Guess I’ll leave the rest of this truck until after supper.” He seated himself in one of the easy chairs and stretched a pair of rather long legs across the carpet. “Let’s get acquainted,” he added, smiling.
Dick liked that smile and answered it. But for a moment neither followed the suggestion. Gard was looking critically at the pictures he had hung, and Dick had a good chance to size him up. His room-mate was a bit taller than Dick, with rather a loose-jointed way of moving. He didn’t look exactly thin, but there certainly wasn’t any excess flesh about him. The running shoes suggested that he was a track athlete, and Dick surmised that he was a good one. You couldn’t call Gard handsome; perhaps he wasn’t even good-looking in the general acceptance of the word; but Dick liked his face none the less. The forehead was high and the lightish hair of a rather indeterminate shade of brown was brushed straight back from it. That happened to be a style of wearing the hair that Dick had always objected to, but he had to own that the fashion suited Gard very well. It emphasised the lean length of the face and added to the sharp, hawk-like appearance produced by a curved beak of a nose, thin and pointed, and the narrow jaws. But if Gard reminded Dick of a hawk, it was a gentle and kindly one, for the mouth was good-natured and the eyes, darkly grey, were soft and honest. Gard wore good clothes with no suggestion of extravagance. In age he was fully seventeen, perhaps a year more. He moved his gaze from the wall and it met Dick’s. Involuntarily both boys smiled. Then each began to speak at once, stopped simultaneously and laughed.
“You say it,” said Gard.
“I was going to ask if you were a runner.”
“I’m a hurdler. I’ve tried the sprints, but I’m only as good as a dozen others. Sometimes I ‘double’ in the broad-jump if we need the points. You look as if you might be fast on the track, Bates. By the way, what’s the rest of your name?”
“Richard C. The C’s for Corliss.”
“That means Dick, doesn’t it?”
“Surely,” laughed the other.
“All right. Mine’s Stanley; usually abbreviated to Stan. Have you ever done any running, Dick?”
“Yes, I’ve done some sprinting. What’s the hundred-yards record here?”
“A fifth. It hasn’t been bettered in years.”
“That’s a fifth better than I can do.”
“Same here. I tried often enough, too, but I only did it once, and that was in practice, with a hard wind at my back. You play football, you said?”
“Yes, do you?”
Stanley