The Guarded Heights & The Straight Path. Charles Wadsworth Camp

      VI

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      The day of the immediate test approached and he found himself no longer afraid of it. Even Bailly one early September evening abandoned cynicism.

      "You've every chance, Morton," he said, puffing at his pipe, "to enter creditably. You may have a condition in French, but what of that? We'll have it off by the divisionals. I'll admit you're far from a dunce. During the next ten days we'll concentrate on the examination idiosyncrasies of my revered colleagues."

      The scholarship had, in fact, been won for George, but the necessary work, removed from any suspicion of the servatorial, had not yet been found. Bailly, although he plainly worried himself, told George not to be impatient; then, just before the entrance examinations, the head coach arrived and settled himself in Princeton. Self-assured young men drifted to the field now every afternoon—"varsity men," the Rogers clan whispered with awe. And there were last year's substitutes, and faithful slaves of the scrub, over-anxious, pouring out to early practice, grasping at one more chance. So far no Freshmen candidates had been called, but the head coach was heard to whisper to Green:

      "We'd better work this fellow Morton with the squad until the cubs start. He'll stand a lot of practice. Give him all the football he'll hold. He's outkicking his ends now. Jack him up without cutting down his distance. I'd like to see him make a tackle. He looks good at the dummy, but you never can tell. He may be an ear-puller."

      The magic words slipped through the town. George caught arriving Freshmen pointing him out. He overheard glowing prophecies.

      "Green says he'll outkick Dewitt."

      It didn't turn his head. To be the greatest player the game had ever known wouldn't have turned his head, for that would have been only one small step toward the summit from which Sylvia looked down on him with contemptuous, inimical eyes.

      The head coach one afternoon gave the ball to a young man of no pronounced value, and instructed him to elude George if he could.

      "You, Morton," the head coach instructed, "see that he doesn't get past you. Remember what you've done to the dummy."

      George nodded, realizing that this was a real test to be passed with a hundred per cent. That man with the ball had the power and the desire to make a miserable failure of him. For the moment he seemed more than a man, deadly, to be conquered at any cost. Schooled by his rough-and-tumble combats at school and in the stables, George kept his glance on the other's eyes; knew, therefore, when he was going to side-step, and in which direction; lunged at exactly the right moment; clipped the runner about the knees; lifted him; brought him crashing to the ground. The ball rolled to one side. George released his man, sprawled, and gathered the ball in his arms. A great silence descended on the field. Out of it, as George got up, slipped the uncertain voice of his victim.

      "Did anything break off, Green? That wasn't a tackle. It was a bad accident. How could I tell he was a bull when he didn't wear horns?"

      George helped the man to his feet.

      "Hope I didn't hurt you."

      "Oh, no. I'll be all right again in a couple of months."

      He limped about his work, muttering:

      "Maybe mother was right when she didn't want me to play this game."

      The coach wasn't through. He gave the ball to George and signalled one of the biggest of the varsity men.

      "Let me see you get past that fellow, Morton."

      George didn't get past, although, with the tackler's vise-like grip about his legs, he struggled with knees and elbows, and kept his feet until the coach called to let him go.

      "I'm sorry," George began.

      "Yes," Green said, severely, "you've got to learn to get past tacklers. If you learn to do that consistently I'll guarantee you a place on the team, provided Mr. Stringham's willing."

      "I'm willing," the head coach said with apparent reluctance.

      Everyone within hearing laughed, but George couldn't laugh, although he knew it was expected.

      "Mr. Stringham," he said, "I will learn to get past them unless they come too thick."

      The coach patted his shoulder. His voice was satisfied.

      "Run along to the showers now."

      There may have been something in the sequence of these events, for that very night Squibs Bailly's face twitched with satisfaction.

      "You have a share," he said, "in the agency of the laundry most generally patronized by our young men. It will pay you enough unless you long for automobiles and gaiety."

      "No," George said, "but, Mr. Bailly, I need clothes. I can afford to buy some now. Where shall I go? What shall I get?"

      Bailly limped about thoughtfully. He named a tailor of the town. He prescribed an outing suit and a dinner suit.

      "Because," he said, "if you're asked about, you want to be able to go, and a dinner suit will pass for a Freshman nearly anywhere."

      "If," George asked himself defiantly as he walked home, "Squibs thinks my ambition unworthy, why does he go out of his way to boost it? Anyway, I'm going to do my best to make touchdowns for him and Mrs. Squibs. Is that Princeton spirit, or Bailly spirit, or am I fooling myself, and am I going to make touchdowns just for myself and Sylvia Planter?"