The school year began the next morning at half past seven when the bell on School Hall rang its imperative summons to chapel. Hugh Ordway, sitting beside Bert in one of the yellow settees in the back of assembly hall—precedent gave the back seats to the upper-class fellows at chapel and to the lower-class boys at other times—observed everything with lively interest. When, the short service over, the fellows rustled back into their seats to listen to the Principal’s talk, Bert whispered to Hugh: “You’d better try for the Glee Club, old man, if you can sing like that.”
Hugh flushed, but made no answer.
Doctor Duncan, middle-aged, tall, sallow, bearded, and near-sighted, arose to the clapping of hands and moved to the front of the platform. His little speech was the same, almost word for word, that the seniors had heard three times already, but the juniors huddled in the front rows listened with flattering attention and were, we will trust, properly impressed. The Principal’s advice was excellent and they certainly couldn’t do better than follow it. Then came a few announcements: Mr. Gibbs had been detained at home by illness and pending his return to duty his classes in History would be taken by Mr. Gring; German 1 would be held in Room F instead of H, as formerly; seniors and upper middlers whose courses had not been as yet approved would submit them to Mr. Rumford during the morning; the reception to students would be held that evening at the Principal’s residence, and it was hoped that all would attend.
Dr. Duncan bowed, removed his spectacles and substituted his shell-rimmed glasses, and said, “Dismissed,” and the hall emptied. Breakfast was at eight o’clock and the first recitation period was at nine. Neither Bert nor Hugh had a first-hour class and they took advantage of that to wait on Mr. Rumford, Assistant Principal and instructor in history, with their schedules. Bert’s misgivings proved not idle, for the German course was changed to physics. Hugh had elected physics, chemistry, and history in addition to the regular studies for his year and his card was promptly approved. At ten they went into Mathematics 4 together and at eleven they had Greek. In the afternoon there were two more periods for Bert—French and History, and one, the latter, for Hugh.
They came out of Mr. Gring’s class together and hurried to the room to leave their books and change to football togs. Hugh, who had the evening before announced his desire to play football and been unblushingly encouraged by Nick, had provided himself with a most complete supply of clothing and paraphernalia, including a head-guard and a football! He confessed that he hadn’t been certain about the necessity for the last article, but had decided to be on the safe side. He looked remarkably spick-and-span in his brand-new regalia when they sallied forth again, a violent contrast to his companion, whose togs were battle-scarred and weather-worn and not, it must be confessed, overclean.
All Grafton, in togs or out, was flocking toward Lothrop Field, and Hugh’s immaculate costume was no longer spectacular once they had joined the throng, since at least half the entering class appeared to have donned football attire quite as fresh and unsullied as his. The juniors were not allowed to try for the School Team but, under the direction of Mr. Sargent, Athletic Director, were trained in the science of the game and later herded into a first or second junior eleven and held notable contests. Still later, the upper-middle and lower-middle classes formed teams and they and the first juniors battled for the class championship, a much-coveted prize.
Already a few tennis enthusiasts were busy on the courts as Bert and his companion passed through the gate, and Hugh stopped a moment to watch. “I dare say a chap doesn’t have much time for tennis if he plays football,” he remarked questioningly.
“None at all,” said Bert. “Do you play?”
“A bit. It’s a rip—a corking game, I think. If I don’t have any luck with football I’ll have to go in for it. I saw a notice up about a Fall Tournament, I think.”
“Yes, they have one in a week or two. We’ve got some rather decent players here. Last year we didn’t do a thing to Mount Morris.”
“You mean to say you beat them, eh?”
“We certainly did! They didn’t have a chance. By the way, have you a racket?”
“Oh, yes; thanks.”
“I sold a peach to Nick yesterday for a dollar and a quarter. I was thinking maybe you might have liked it.”
“That’s awfully good of you,” replied the other gratefully, “but I’m fixed very well for rackets. I brought three along.”
“Three! Then I guess you wouldn’t have needed that one. There’s your crowd over there, Hugh. You wait with them, and Bonner will be after you in a few minutes.”
“They’re the rookies, eh? Right, old chap. See you later, then.”
What happened to Hugh that afternoon Bert didn’t have much time to discover, for the regulars had a pretty busy session. But afterwards, back in 29, Hugh recounted his experiences with a quiet drollery that brought many chuckles from Bert.
“It was all rather different from what I’d thought,” said Hugh, reflectively rubbing a sore knee. “A chap named Hannigan——”
“Hanrihan,” corrected Bert. “Sub tackle.”
“Well, he took a lot of us over on the other side of the tennis courts and made us do the most astonishing things, do you know? We’d chuck the ball around, one to another, and then when someone would drop it, you know, instead of picking it up he’d have to fall over on the wobbly thing!” He rubbed his knee again. “I had to do it myself a number of times. A bit awkward I felt, too. The silly ball had a way of not being there when you dropped down for it. And this chap Hanrihan was most awfully impatient with us, do you know? Some of the things he said were quite rude. I fancy he didn’t mean anything, though. I dare say we were a bit trying. There was a fat Johnnie with us who was always trying to catch the ball in his mouth and, of course, his mouth wasn’t big enough. Hannigan—I should say Hanrihan—told me he was a tub of butter. Queer thing to call him, I think. I wondered why a tub of butter. Because he was fat, eh?”
“Yes. You mustn’t mind what they say to you, Hugh. It’s part of the game.”
“I didn’t. Of course, I understood that. Then he had us line up and start off when he rolled the ball and run like a ballywhack. But you’ve been through with all that, eh?”
“Yes. Not just what you expected, then?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Bert. You see, on the other side we don’t practise quite that way. I mean we—well, we don’t—aren’t so serious about it, if you know what I mean. Take rugger, for instance——”
“I beg your pardon?” interrupted Bert, puzzled.
“Eh? Oh, rugger—Rugby, you know. We rather make play of it. Of course, we do practise, but not the way you American—I should say we American—chaps do. But I dare say it isn’t so hard when you’ve learned a bit, eh?”
“I’m afraid it is,” replied Bert. “The more you know and the better player you are the harder grind you have to go through. If you make the School Team you work like a slave for a good six weeks.”
“Really? But what for?”
“Why to beat Mount Morris, of course. And any others we can before that.”
“Yes, of course, but——” Hugh hesitated, with a perplexed frown on his face. “Mind you, I’ve seen football played, and I got beastly nervous and excited about it, but what I’m trying to get at is this, old chap: suppose, now, you didn’t work so hard in getting ready for the other chap, what would happen?”
“We’d get licked, I suppose.”
“You wouldn’t like that, eh?”
“Like it? I should say not! Mount Morris beat us last year, twelve to three, and this place was like a—a morgue for a week afterwards. This year we’re going to rub it into her.”
“That’s what I gathered,” said Hugh. “I mean, those fellows I saw play last Autumn didn’t seem to be having much sport, you know; didn’t appear to be there for—for the fun they’d get out of it, if you know what I mean. It looked to me very much like hard work. The only time they showed any pleasure was when they scored on the other chaps. Then they’d wave their arms and jump up and down like mad. And a thousand or so Johnnies in the seats would cheer themselves hoarse. But that was ’varsity football, and I fancied you fellows here at prep school would go in more for the fun of it.”
“Oh, we get plenty of fun out of it,” said Bert. “We all like it, or we wouldn’t do it. That is——” He hesitated. “Maybe some of us do go in for football more for the glory than the sport,” he went on thoughtfully. “I guess it’s got to be rather a—a fashion. It’s like this, Hugh. A fellow who makes his School Team is a bit important and he gets some reputation and fellows like to know him. And then, when he goes up to college he finds it easier. If he keeps on making good he meets fellows he wants to know, fellows who can help him, you see, and he probably makes one of the sophomore societies and—there he is.”
“Yes?” said Hugh questioningly.
“I don’t mean that all the fellows who try for the team think about all that. They don’t. Lots of them play football because they love it. But now, take Ted Trafford, for instance. Ted’s a bully sort of a fellow, but he isn’t—well, brilliant. Ted started out with the intention of doing just what he has done, that is, being captain of the team in his senior year. Ted’s going to Princeton next fall. He will get there with the—the prestige of having captained the Grafton School Football Team, and it’s going to be a lot easier for him. If Ted went up there unknown he would have hard work getting anywhere, probably. He’s just a big, good-looking, good-natured fellow, and he isn’t a smart student and he wouldn’t shine at anything outside of football. His folks aren’t wealthy, although I guess they have enough money to live on, and they haven’t any special social position in New York, I suppose. But that won’t matter in Ted’s case because he will go up there and make the freshman team and then get on the ’varsity and make a name for himself. He will meet fellows of money and position that way, have a good time in college and fall into something soft when he gets through.”
“I see,” said Hugh. “It’s that way to some extent, I fancy, on the other side. I mean that if a chap makes a name for himself at school he finds it easier getting in when he goes up to Oxford or Cambridge. It’s quite natural.” He was silent a moment. Then: “I dare say that explains why you chaps go in for sports so seriously. You’re working for something, eh?”
“No, that isn’t quite right,” objected Bert. “I didn’t mean you to think that every fellow has that idea in his head. I guess more than half of us take part in athletics because we want to. I know that in my case I never thought of getting any advantages by it. In fact, I don’t believe I ever thought the thing out before. I play football just as I play tennis or hockey or anything else, because I like the game, like mixing with a lot of good fellows, like to do what I can for the School.”
“And like to beat Mount Morris,” said Hugh, smiling.
“You bet!”
“That’s the part of it that seems a bit odd, now. As I make it out you don’t care so much for playing football as you do for winning from the other chap, the rival school, you know. If you do win it’s all awfully jolly and everyone’s as happy as a lark. If you lose, why, you all draw long faces and feel sort of disgraced.”
“That’s rather exaggerated, but you get the idea. And why not? Don’t you like to win when you start out to?”
“Oh, rather! But playing a game is playing a game, old chap. It isn’t business or war, is it? Why not play for the fun of it? Try as hard as you like and then if you don’t win—er—forget it!” Hugh was palpably proud of his bit of slang.
“That’s all right,” replied Bert. “I’ve heard a lot about your English sportsmanship and all that, but I notice that when we go over to your side of the pond and beat you, you don’t like it a bit and you come back at us with charges of professionalism.”
“I didn’t know we did,” said Hugh. “If we do, maybe it’s because you go into it so hard that—that you look like professionals! You know you do go a pretty long way sometimes to beat the other chap.”
“Oh, rot! If you’re out to beat a fellow, beat him. That’s my idea.”
“Yes, I know, but there are some things a chap wouldn’t do to win, aren’t there? He wouldn’t cheat, for instance, and he wouldn’t take advantage of—of technicalities, if you know what I mean. Oh, I dare say I’ll come around to your way of looking at it after a bit,” Hugh added cheerfully. “Anyway, I’m going to keep on plugging along at football, because, maybe, you know, after a while I’ll really think it’s fun!”
“Meaning that you don’t now?” laughed Bert.
Hugh smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t—yet. Beastly grind, I’d call it now. I say, isn’t it time for eats?”