Full-Back Foster. Barbour Ralph Henry

he knew his business. “Tod” Driscoll was about thirty, perhaps a year or two more, and had coached at Parkinson for several seasons. He was a Parkinson graduate, but his football reputation had been made at Yale. He was immensely popular with the students, although he made no effort to gain popularity and was the strictest kind of a disciplinarian. Today, while Myron, pausing at the edge of the crowded gridiron a few yards distant, viewed him and speculated about him, the coach showed rather less decision than usual, for twice he gave instructions, once to Billy and once to the manager, and each time changed his mind.

      “We’ve got to find more instructors,” Myron heard him say a trifle impatiently. “How about you, Ken? Know enough football to take a bunch of those beginners over to the second team gridiron?”

      “I’m afraid not, Coach,” answered Kenneth Farnsworth.

      “You don’t need to know much. What do you say, Billy? Who is there? I’ve got most of the veterans at work already, and there isn’t one of them that shouldn’t be learning instead of teaching.”

      Myron didn’t hear the trainer’s reply, for at that moment a well-built, light-haired, somewhat harassed youth of apparently nineteen strode up to the group. “Look here, Coach,” he began before he was well within talking distance, “what about the backs? We’ve got to have some get-together work before Saturday’s game, haven’t we? Cater says you’ve got him in charge of a kindergarten class, Brown’s sewed up the same way, Garrison hasn’t shown up – ”

      “I know, Cap. But what are we going to do with this raft of talent? Some one’s got to take hold of them, and I can’t take more than twenty. Cummins is about ready to go on strike – ”

      “It is a mess, isn’t it?” Captain Mellen turned and viewed the scene puzzledly. “The worst of it is that there probably aren’t a dozen in the whole lot worth troubling with.”

      “True, but we’ve got to find the dozen,” answered Mr. Driscoll. “We can’t afford to miss any bets this year, Cap. We’ll call the first-choice backs together at four. That’ll give us half an hour for kindergarten stuff. But I want a couple more fellows to take hold. Who are they?”

      “Search me! Why not double them up, sir?”

      “They’ve been doubled up – or pretty nearly. Cummins has about thirty to look after and Cater twenty-four or five. That’s too many. Sixteen’s enough for a squad. How about Garrison?”

      “He isn’t here. I don’t know what – ”

      “He’s cut,” interposed Farnsworth. “Got a conference at four.”

      “Conference! Gee, why couldn’t he have that some other time?” asked Jud Mellen.

      “Time to start, sir,” said Farnsworth, looking at his watch.

      “All right, let’s get at it. But I wish I could think – Who’s that fellow there, Mellen?” Mr. Driscoll dropped his voice. Mellen turned and looked at Myron and shook his head.

      “I don’t know him, Coach. Who is he, Ken?”

      “I think” – Farnsworth turned the pages of his book until he had found the F’s – “I think his name is Forrest. No, Foster. High school fellow. Two years playing. Passed a corking physical exam.”

      “Foster!”

      Myron, who had been aware that he was under discussion, joined the group. “Yes, sir?” he asked.

      “Think you could take about twenty fellows over to the next field and show them how to handle the ball? You know the sort of stuff, don’t you? Passing, falling, starting and so on. Want to try it?”

      “Yes, sir, I can do it all right.”

      “Good! We’ve got such a mob here today that we’re short-handed. Stick to me a minute and I’ll round you up a bunch.”

      “You can’t call him exactly modest, can you?” asked the manager of Billy Goode when the others had walked away. “‘I can do it all right,’ says he.”

      “How do you know he can’t?” asked Billy. “And if he can there ain’t any harm in his saying so, is there? Say, if I was starting my life over again, my friend, I’d say yes to everything like that any one asked me. I missed a lot of good chances by being too modest.”

      “And truthful?” laughed Kenneth.

      “Let it go at modest,” said Billy smiling.

      Myron received eighteen boys as his portion and led them across to the second team gridiron and set to work. Four other awkward squads adorned the field, the nearer one being under the care of Charles Cummins. Myron smiled secretly when he saw the surprised stare with which Cummins regarded him. When their glances met Cummins nodded shortly. To put his class through the third lesson was no trick for Myron, but it was dreary and tiresome work. It seemed to him that Coach Driscoll must have deliberately apportioned to him the stupidest boys on the field, for of all the awkward squads Myron had ever had anything to do with his was the awkwardest. But some few presently began to respond to treatment and by the time they were jumping out of the line and digging knees and elbows and shoulders into the turf in the effort to land on the trickling pigskin he felt that he hadn’t done so badly with them. He didn’t say much to them, for his own experience had shown him that too much instruction and criticism only confused the pupil, and neither did he try to impress them with their stupidity. As a result, most of them eventually forgot to be self-conscious and tried to follow instructions. Watching, Myron heard a voice at his elbow and looked around into the face of Cummins, who, giving his own charges a moment of rest, had walked across unnoticed.