Rivals for the Team: A Story of School Life and Football by Ralph Henry Barbour - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXVI
 HUGH IS UNMASKED!

Grafton had won!

That she had done so only by the slimmest of chances and in the last moments of time, that Mount Morris had held her helpless through fifty-eight minutes of that long-drawn sixty, that the Green-and-White had actually gained more ground by rushing, and had, all in all, shown more football skill, was of no moment now. Tomorrow, in a calmer frame of mind, Grafton might realize all this, but today the fact of victory was all she heeded!

She captured the scarlet-legged players, who, wearied and panting, begged for mercy, and carried them shoulder-high about the field. She snake-danced and tossed hats and caps over the crossbars. She cheered and sang and cavorted and laughed and triumphed. And finally she crowded in front of the field house and, Joe Leslie waving his scarlet megaphone and leading, cheered every member of the eleven and Coach Bonner and Coach Crowley and Trainer Richards and Manager Quinn, and then cheered the Team and the School! And, at last, as twilight settled down, she dispersed across the green and back to the buildings, still laughing, still singing, still shouting.

The final score was 7 to 0, for Captain Ted Trafford, with Nick holding the ball for him, had finished his football career at Grafton by sending the pigskin straight and high over the crossbar and registering the last point for the Scarlet-and-Gray.

But where all had played well and some more than well, it was Left Half Winslow who had emerged the hero of the game and of the season. It was Bert who had torn off that last thirty yards on a brilliant, zig-zag rush around the unsuspecting Mount Morris left end and past a half-dozen desperate defenders, and one cannot perform a feat like that and escape the consequences. As Mr. Smiley said when he stopped to shake hands with Bert at the entrance of Lothrop later, “Sic itur ad astra,” very freely translated by Nick into “Thus one becomes a star”!

Hugh, who had patiently waited for Bert to emerge from the field house and had walked back through the dusk with him and Nick and Pop and several others, was still bubbling praise and congratulations as, having left the rest, they toiled up the last flight.

“It was simply corking, Bert!” he declared for the tenth time. “I don’t see yet how you ever got through! Why, there were at least five fellows between you and the goal line! Twice I was sure you were done for and closed my eyes, and each time, when I looked again, you were still nipping it! It was perfectly ripping!”

“Just the same it ought to have been you, old man. I don’t forget that, you bet!”

“I’d never have done it,” replied Hugh with conviction. “They’d have nailed me sure as shooting.” He swung open the door of the study and, followed by Bert, groped his way toward the switch. As he did so a discreet cough sounded in the gloom. “Hello,” exclaimed Hugh. “Who’s there?”

“Bowles, sir. I tried to find the switch, sir, but——”

“Who?”

“Bowles, sir. I——”

“Bowles!” The light flared and Hugh faced the occupant of the study in amazement. Then he sprang forward and seized the embarrassed Bowles by the hand. “Bowles! I say, wherever did you drop from? What are you doing here, eh?”

“Her Ladyship thought——”

“You remember Bowles, Bert? He was with me that day I came.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Bert, shaking hands rather, as it seemed, to Bowles’ horror. “How are you, Bowles?”

“Nicely, thank you, sir. I——”

“But, I say, what’s the idea?” demanded Hugh. “Is the mater here?”

“No, sir. Her Ladyship—Ouch! Beg pardon, sir!” Bowles discreetly stepped out of the reach of Hugh’s toes. “I mean to say, Master Hugh, that your mother was worried when she received your——”

“Shut up, Bowles! Don’t be a babbling ass! You mean my mother sent you up to see what was going on, eh? Well, that’s all right, only it wasn’t necessary, you know. I’m quite O. K. Glad to see you, though. You might sit down and stop fidgeting. When did you get here?”

“About a quarter to three, sir. There was—h’m—a misunderstanding about trains, sir, and I was obliged to engage a fly at the Junction.”

Hugh chuckled. “You’d get the trains balled up if it was anyway possible, wouldn’t you, Bowles? Well, never mind that now you’re here. You’re going to stick around until tomorrow, I take it. I say, Bert, can he get any supper here?”

“Surest thing you know! We’ll tell Jimmy and he’ll fix Bowles up downstairs. And he can sleep on the window-seat, if you like.”

“Oh, no, sir, thanking you, sir! I wouldn’t think of it, sir. I’m informed there’s a very comfortable inn in the village, sir.”

“Yes, that’s better,” agreed Hugh. “You can have your supper here and then stick around while the fun lasts. You see, Bowles, we’re due for a bit of a jolly rumpus tonight. This is the day we celebrate, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, sir, quite so. I—I witnessed the football contest, sir.”

“Oh, you did? And you saw Mr. Winslow make his touchdown? Well, say, Bowles, wasn’t that a little bit of all right?”

“Quite remarkable, sir! Yes, indeed, sir. A most clever bit of work, Mr. Winslow, if you’ll pardon my saying it.”

“Thanks, Bowles. I’m going to get into some clean togs, Hugh. It must be—Hello! Come in!”

Nick and Pop and Ted Trafford crowded through the door and for a minute confusion ruled. Then, while Pop and Ted held Bert captive in the Morris chair and playfully pummeled him, Nick’s voice arose above the tumult.

“Well, if it isn’t my old friend Bowler!” shouted Nick. “Bowler, old top, how’s everything at dear old Glyndestoke?” Nick was ringing Bowles’ hand enthusiastically and Bowles’ face was a study. “When did you leave the Manor, Bowler? Fellows, meet Mr. Bowler!”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” stammered the man, “Bowles, if you please, sir!”

“Bowles, of course! Stupid of me, eh, what? Fellows——”

“Cut it out, Nick,” begged Hugh. “Bowles ran up to see how things were getting on, don’t you know. Got here for the game and had the time of his life, didn’t you, Bowles?”

“Good for Bowles!” cried the incorrigible Nick. “He’s a true sport! You’ve only to look at him to know that!” Nick threw himself on the window-seat, only to arise as quickly and lift from the cushion the battered remains of what had once been a most respectable derby hat. Nick viewed it with surprise and awe, and—I fear—delight! “Bowles, is this yours?” he asked tremulously.

A silence fell over the room. Then someone chuckled and a burst of laughter arose as Bowles meekly assented.

“I’m awfully sorry,” declared Nick, looking quite otherwise. “I’ll buy you another, Bowles.”

“It’s of no consequence, sir,” said Bowles. “In fact, sir, it was already—er—a bit damaged. A young gentleman at the football game, sir, used it—er—quite roughly, sir!”

The laughter redoubled and into it, having knocked without receiving any answer, came a half-dozen fellows; Keyes and Roy Dresser and Tom Hanrihan, of the first, and Brewster Longley and Neil Ayer, of the second, and Wallace Cathcart, non-combatant.

“Proctor!” shouted Ted. “Less noise, gentlemen!”

“Hello, Wal!” greeted the irrepressible Nick. “Just in time, old top!” He flourished the squashed and mutilated hat. “We’re celebrating the finish of the Derby!”

“Too much row, Wal?” asked Bert.

Cathcart shook his head. “I guess a little noise is to be expected today, Bert,” he answered. “I saw the crowd and just came over to congratulate you.”

“Good old Wal!” shouted Nick. “Speech! Speech! Shut up, fellows, Cathcart’s going to speech!”

But Cathcart shook his head and smiled. “I’ve said it,” he replied.

“Short and to the point,” applauded Roy Dresser. “Brevity, young gentlemen, is the soul of wit. Say, Hobo, what happened to you, anyway? I’ve heard forty-eleven yarns. Why didn’t you play?”

“Yes, what’s the real answer?” demanded Hanrihan.

“Bowles’ll know,” declared Nick. “Speak up, Bowles, old top! Gentlemen, we have with us this evening ’is ’Ighness’s tried and trusted retainer, Mr. Bowles. A short cheer for Bowles, fellows!”

“Rah, rah, rah! Bowles!” was the instant and enthusiastic response. Bowles looked distinctly uncomfortable, although he tried hard to smile a respectful smile.

“Now, then, Bowles, out with it!” demanded Nick. “What was this vile conspiracy to——”

“Really, sir, I’m not at liberty——”

“Bowles, shut up!” warned Hugh sharply.

“Hobo, don’t interfere,” cried Roy Dresser. “Someone muzzle him.”

He wasn’t muzzled, but several fellows so engaged his attention for a minute that speech was impossible.

“Now, Bowles, once more. You were saying?”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I’m not at liberty to speak, sir. His Lordship——”

There was a smothered groan from the struggling Hugh.

“Who?” asked Nick.

“That is, sir, Master Hugh——”

“Wait a minute,” exclaimed Bert, pushing forward. “You said something about ‘his Lordship,’ Bowles. Who did you mean?”

Bowles cast an anguished look across the table toward Hugh, but no help came to him for the reason that Hugh was very, very busy.

“No one, sir. A—a figure of speech, if you please, sir.”

“Well, all right, Bowles. Proceed. Tell us your sweet, sad story,” prompted Nick.

“Hold on,” interrupted Bert. “Let’s get this straight. There’s something queer here.”

“Several,” murmured Nick.

“Who’s his Lordship, Bowles? Do you mean Hugh?”

“Really, Mr. Winslow——” began the perturbed Bowles.

At that instant Hugh threw off the enemy and bounded to his feet. “Bowles!” he cried. “Shut up! Get out of here!”

“Yes, sir,” said Bowles with vast relief. But Bert interposed.

“Don’t you do it, Bowles,” he commanded. “Let’s get this straight.”

“Bowles!” cautioned Hugh sternly.

“Let him talk. Free speech!” said Longley.

“Fellows,” interrupted Wallace Cathcart mildly, “we’re making it very difficult for Mr. Bowles. Besides, he’s not going to tell you anything, and I will, if you’ll be quiet a minute.”

“Shoot!” said Nick. “Shut up, everyone! Go ahead, Wal.”

“Well, I suppose Hugh will want my life blood,” went on Cathcart, smiling at Hugh’s frowning and anxious countenance, “but I’ll trust to you fellows to save me.”

“He shan’t touch a bone of your head,” Pop assured him.

“I know he doesn’t want it known, fellows, but I don’t see why it shouldn’t be. Besides, it’s bound to get out some time, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” agreed Nick. “What are you talking about?”

“It was something Hugh let drop in my room one day that made me—well, suspicious. There’s a book in the library that tells all about the English nobility and titled families and all that, you know, and so I had a look at it. Hugh had told me that he lived at a place called Glyndestoke, and so the rest was easy.”

Everyone was silent and curious, everyone save Hugh. Hugh was palpably unhappy.

“I say, Wal, if you know anything, shut up, won’t you?” he begged.

“Don’t intimidate the witness,” said Pop. “Go ahead, Cathcart. What did you discover?”

“I discovered,” continued Cathcart after an apologetic glance at Hugh, “that the owner of Lockely Manor in Glyndestoke, Hampshire—or Hants, as Hugh calls it—England, is the Marquis of Lockely, who is some sort of a secretary in the Ministry; I’ve forgotten what.”

“Political Secretary, Colonial Office, sir, begging your pardon,” said Bowles proudly.

“Also,” continued Cathcart, with a twinkle in his eye, “I discovered that the aforementioned Marquis of Lockely has one son, Hugh Oswald Brodwick, Earl of Ordway!”

Number 29 was so still for an instant that you could have heard a pin drop! Then someone said, “Gee!” very fervently, and a dozen fellows all began to talk at once. But it was Bert’s voice which dominated the others.

“Is that so, Hugh?” he demanded.

“Oh, dry up,” answered Hugh. “I—I’d like to punch your head, Cathcart!”

“I was afraid you would,” replied Cathcart sadly.

“The Earl of Ordway!” gasped Nick. “What—do—you—know—about—that?”

“I’m not an earl,” declared Hugh uncomfortably. “It—it’s only a courtesy-title. And, anyhow, I don’t see what difference it makes!”

“It doesn’t, Hobo! Not a bit!” said Pop soothingly. “We’ll all try to forget it and let you live it down. After all, it isn’t your fault, is it, fellows?”

“Of course not!” laughed Hanrihan. “He couldn’t help it! Buck up, Hobo! No one’s going to hold it against you!”

Bowles gasped. “Against his Lordship, sir! Against him?”

“Bowles, shut up! I’m not your Lordship. I’m——” Hugh’s puckered brow smoothed and he laughed—“I’m just Hobo Ordway. Now forget it, fellows, won’t you? It’s all piffling poppycock, anyway! That’s just what it is, by Jove, piffling poppycock, if you know what I mean!”