The Straight Path & The Guarded Heights. Charles Wadsworth Camp

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ as far as the end of that stand. Halt there for a minute, then turn and come back."

      He drew out a stop watch.

      "All set? Then—git!"

      George streaked down the field.

      "It's an even hundred yards," the trainer explained to Bailly.

      As George paused at the end of the stand the trainer snapped his watch, whistling.

      "There are lots with running shoes and drawers wouldn't do any better. Let's have him back."

      He waved his arm. George tore up and leant against the railing, breathing hard, but not uncomfortably.

      "You were a full second slower coming back," the trainer said with a twinkle.

      "I'm sorry," George cried. "Let me try it again."

      Green shook his head.

      "I'd rather see you make a tackle, but I've no one to spare."

      He grinned invitation at Bailly.

      "My spirit, Green," the tutor said, "is less fragile than my corpus, but it has some common-sense. I prefer others should perish at the hands of my discoveries."

      "You've scrubbed around," the trainer said, appraising George's long, muscular legs. "Ever kick a football?"

      "A little."

      Green entered the field house, reappearing after a moment with a football tucked under his arm.

      "Do you mind stepping down the field, Mr. Bailly, to catch what he punts? I wouldn't go too far."

      Bailly nodded and walked a short distance away. The trainer gave George the football and told him to kick it to Bailly. George stepped on the grass and swung his leg. If the ball had travelled horizontally as far as it did toward heaven it would have been a good kick. For half an hour the trainer coached interestedly, teaching George the fundamentals of kicking form. Some of the later punts, indeed, boomed down the field for considerable distances, but in George's mind the high light of that unexpected experience remained the lanky, awkward figure in wrinkled tweeds, limping about the field, sometimes catching the ball, sometimes looking hurt when it bounded from his grasp, sometimes missing it altogether, and never once losing the flashing pleasure from his eyes or the excitement out of his furrowed face.

      "Enough," the trainer said at last.

      George heard him confide to the puffing tutor:

      "Possibilities. Heaven knows we'll need them a year from this fall, especially in the kicking line. I believe this fellow can be taught."

      Bailly, his hands shaking from his recent exercise, lighted a pipe. He assumed a martyr's air. His voice sounded as though someone had done him an irreparable wrong.

      "Then I'll have to try, but it's hard on me, Green, you'll admit."

      George hid his excitement. He knew he had passed his first examination. He was sure he would enter college. Already he felt the confidence most men placed in Squibs Bailly.

      "Wouldn't you have taken him on anyway, Mr. Bailly?" the trainer laughed. "Anyway, a lot of my players are first-group men. I depend on you to turn him over in the fall for the Freshman eleven. Going to town?"

      "Come on, Morton," Bailly said, remorsefully.

      Side by side the three walked through to Nassau Street and past the campus. George said nothing, drinking in the scarcely comprehensible talk of the others about team prospects and the appalling number of powerful and nimble young men who would graduate the following June.

      Near University Place he noticed Rogers loafing in front of a restaurant with several other youths who wore black caps. He wondered why Rogers started and stared at him, then turned, speaking quickly to the others.

      Green went down University Place. George paced on with Bailly. In front of the Nassau Club the tutor paused.

      "I'm going in here," he said, "but you can come to my house at eight-thirty. We'll work until ten-thirty. We'll do that every night until your brain wrinkles a trifle. You may not have been taught that twenty-four hours are allotted to each day. Eight for sleep. Two with me. Two for meals. Two at the field. Two for a run in the country. That leaves eight for study, and you'll need every minute of them. I'll give you your schedule to-night. If you break it once I'll drop you, for you've got to have a brain beyond the ordinary to make it wrinkle enough."

      "Thanks, Mr. Bailly. If you don't mind, what will it cost?"

      Bailly considered.

      "I'll have to charge you," he said at last, "twenty-five dollars, but I can lend you most of the books."

      George understood, but his pride was not hurt.

      "I'll pay you in other ways."

      Bailly looked at him, his emaciated face smiling all over.

      "I think you will," he said with a little nod. "All right. At eight-thirty."

      He limped along the narrow cement walk and entered the club. George started back. The group, he noticed, still loitered in front of the restaurant. Rogers detached himself and strolled across. He was no longer suspicious.

      "You been down at the field with Mr. Green?"

      "Yes."

      "What for?"

      "Running a little, kicking a football around."

      "Trust Bailly to guess you played. What did Green say?"

      "If I get in," George, answered simply, "I think he'll give me a show."

      "I guess so," Rogers said, thoughtfully, "or he wouldn't be wasting his time on you now. Come on over and meet these would-be Freshmen. We'll all be in the same class unless we get brain-fever. Mostly Lawrenceville."

      George crossed and submitted to elaborate introductions and warm greetings.

      "Green's grooming him already for the Freshman eleven," Rogers explained.

      George accepted the open admiration cautiously, not forgetting what he had been yesterday, what Sylvia had said. Why was Rogers so friendly all at once?

      "What prep?" "Where'd you play?" "Line or backfield?"

      The rapidity of the questions lessened his discomfort. How was he to avoid such moments? He must make his future exceptionally full so that it might submerge the past of which he couldn't speak without embarrassment. In this instance Rogers helped him out.

      "Morton's bummed around. Never went to any school for long."

      George pondered this kind act and its fashion as he excused himself and walked on to his lodging. There was actually something to hide, and Rogers admitted it, and was willing to lend a cloak. He could guess why. Because Green was bothering with him, had condescended to be seen on the street with him. George's vision broadened.

      He locked himself in his room and sat before his souvenirs. Sylvia's СКАЧАТЬ