FIRST LESSONS

Tom was out when Jerry reached the room, and so he settled down for an hour’s study. If he yielded to the temptation that was assailing he would, he reflected, need to make the most of such spare moments as the present. And that reminded him once more that he had a confession to make to Tom, and that he rather dreaded making it. Tom was the closest friend he had ever had, with the exception of Pap Huckins, and he hated to disappoint him ever so slightly. Of course what he contemplated doing wasn’t going to affect his chum very much, but he feared that it would look horribly like desertion.

However, Jerry wasn’t one to put off a duty merely because it was unpleasant, and when Tom came back from a conference of cheer leaders in Fred Sanford’s room――Sanford was captain of the crew and president of the first class――Jerry took a deep breath and broke the news.

“Tom, I reckon I’m going to see if they’ll let me play football,” he announced.

Somewhat to his surprise, Tom neither turned pale nor showed agitation in any other way. Instead he turned from clearing his bed of the multitude of articles that collected there daily and viewed his roommate quite calmly. “Well,” he answered, “I guess they will, for a while, anyway.”

Jerry blinked. After a moment he said: “I――I thought I’d tell you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t seem much surprised.”

“I’m not. I’ve been expecting you to spring it for a week.”

“Oh! Well, you――you ain’t caring?”

Tom laughed. “Don’t be an idiot, Jerry,” he answered. “If you want to play football why shouldn’t you play it? I’m going to miss you on the baseball squad, of course, but I’ll get along all right. From what Perry Naughton said this evening I judge that they’ll be glad to have you. Naughton says they’re short of good men this year and that they’re going after ’em to-morrow. When are you going to start?”

“To-morrow, I reckon. That is, if I can find something to wear. Don Sears has got a pair of pants he says I can borrow, but I ain’t got the rest of the clothes.”

“Ask the trainer for a pair of shoes. They’ve got plenty of extra ones. All you need then is a jersey. Let’s see, I think I’ve got an old one over at the gym in the locker. I’ll look in the morning. It won’t pay you to buy anything until you’ve found out whether you’re going to like it; and whether they’re going to like you. Sears says you’re quite a punter, Jerry.”

“I reckon he was just talking. I――I’ve been sort of messing about with a ball over there mornings.”

“Yes, I saw you once.”

“Oh!” Jerry looked as if he had been detected in a crime. “I――I didn’t think you knew. You see, I didn’t mean to――to desert you, at first, and so I didn’t say anything about it.”

“Don’t you worry about deserting me,” laughed Tom. “Of course I tried to discourage you, for it’s mighty hard to get enough fellows to make baseball practice worth while in the fall, but when I saw that you really had the football bug I quit. I hope you’ll make good, Jeremiah, and if you play football the way you do baseball, you certainly will!”

“I reckon I won’t do much,” answered Jerry modestly. “I don’t know football very well, Tom. There’s a lot of it that I just don’t sense.”

“There’s a lot of it that hasn’t any sense,” chuckled the other. “But don’t let that trouble you. They’ll teach you enough to play your position and that’s about all you’ll need to learn. You let the coach do the heavy thinking and just develop a good straight-arm jab and a fine hard bite, Jerry.”

“How do you mean, bite?” asked Jerry innocently.

“Why, with your teeth, boy! Gosh, you don’t think it’s all done with the hands and feet, do you? When you get an opponent down you must be able to bite his nose off. Just gouging an eye out won’t get you anywhere!”

“Reckon that’s why they wear those rubber things on their faces,” mused Jerry gravely. “Well, I’ve got right strong teeth. Reckon there’ll be other fellers joining to-morrow? I wouldn’t want to be the only one, Tom.”

“I guess so. You should worry about that, Jerry. Every fellow looks the fool once in his life!”

Jerry’s fears proved needless the next afternoon when, at half-past three, he made his way rather self-consciously from gymnasium to gridiron. At least eight other boys had responded to Coach Thorne’s appeal, which had been read by Doctor Heidler, among other announcements, after chapel. Most of them looked to be far from varsity material, but there were one or two likely seeming youths in the number. Jerry, attired in a very worn pair of khaki trousers, a faded light-blue jersey, borrowed shoes and striped baseball stockings, felt rather strange and tried to hide himself amongst the other tyros, one or two of whom were known to him. But they had a way of wandering nervously about, leaving him suddenly alone and exposed to the gaze of the gathering audience on the seats, an audience that, lacking a more exciting way of spending an hour or so, was inclined to find amusement on the slightest excuse. However, if any found Jerry amusing, or even detected his presence, they kept it to themselves, and presently Coach Thorne, who lived in Annapolis and journeyed out to the school daily in a mud-splashed Ford car, made his appearance, and Manager Naughton called: “New candidates this way!” and Jerry followed the others and had his name set down on Naughton’s list. By that time three squads were busy about the field, two practicing formations and a third leaping at the dummy in the far corner. Coach Thorne came and looked the new candidates over sharply.

“I hope you fellows are in earnest,” he said. “If you aren’t you might just as well quit before you begin. What’s your name, you big chap?”

“Pentland, sir.”

“Any experience?”

“I played on my house team last year.”

“In the line? Guard or tackle?”

“No, sir, full back.”

“Better try for tackle, Pentland. Next fellow, what’s your name?”

“Chase.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen in December.”

“Which December? Last or next?”

“Next, sir.”

“Thought so. You’re too light, Chase. Sorry, but we can’t use you. Thanks for coming out, though. Hello, I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Were you out last year?”

“No, sir,” replied Jerry, next in line. “I――you saw me on the train coming from Washington, sir.”

“On the train? Oh, yes, I remember. Ever played football?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I don’t see how we can use you――er―――― What’s the name?”

“Oh, you’re Benson, of the Nine, eh? Is this your usual weight?”

“I reckon so.”

“Ever handled a ball at all? Football, I mean.”

“I’ve punted a little.”

“Have, eh? Well, all right, Benson, you can punt a little more. Back field for you. Tell the trainer to put some weight on you, please.”

One more candidate was eliminated with polite regrets by the coach and then all were bidden follow him onto the field and there, under the stern eye of Jackson, summoned from Squad A, the seven youths went through a highly concentrated drill in handling a football. They passed the ball and fell on it and picked it up on the bound and did everything with it but swallow it, or so the tall, slow-moving Pentland confided to Jerry in one of the brief pauses. The tasks were novel to Jerry, but he did fairly well, thanks to the slight experience he had gained with Don Sears. His faculty for putting his entire mind on whatever undertaking was before him helped considerably and he escaped any of the biting criticisms that Andy Jackson snapped out for the benefit of the others. Later, they were lined up and taught to start off full speed at the snapping of the ball in the hand of Jackson. At least thirty times they tried that, watching the poised ball, darting off headlong and trotting breathlessly back again, and in most cases failing to satisfy the critical instructor.

“Say, you big chap! Take the weights out of your shoes and hustle! You’re left on the mark every time! And you, Prentiss, don’t try to beat the ball. Watch it and not me. Now then, once more! Imagine you’re playing end and that a punt’s coming. Your job is to get down the field to tackle. And you want to get there quick. The other fellow isn’t going to wait for you. Jump off and hit your stride quick. Get set!”

By the time Jackson was willing to stop they were all pretty much out of breath and he set them passing the ball again while he delivered a brief lecture on speed. Occasionally Jerry’s eyes wandered to where the punters were at work and the air appeared to be filled with soaring footballs, and it was borne to him that he was destined to serve a long and arduous apprenticeship before he would be found among those privileged mortals. When, finally, even the modest area of the field the new candidates occupied was demanded for scrimmage Jackson led them down to the tackling dummy and introduced them to a new amusement.

“You fellows understand, I suppose,” said the coach pro tem rather severely, “that we don’t usually try to teach a little of everything in one day. But you’ve got to hustle if you’re going to catch up with the others who have been out for a fortnight, and so I’m going to let you try a little tackling. I don’t expect you to show much form. All I ask is that you listen to what I tell you and try to do it right. Make a line there. Now, when I pull the dummy across go for it. Remember that flying tackles are barred. Always keep one foot at least on the ground. When you tackle, tackle hard. Try to bring the dummy down. You can’t do it, but you can try. One of you fellows pull this rope for me and I’ll show you how it’s done. All right, let her go.”

Jackson poised himself, shot forward, there was a thud of canvas against canvas, the pulley rattled and the stuffed effigy of an enemy stopped short in its brief career across the trampled pit. Jackson released his hold of the swinging legs and jumped to his feet.

“That’s the way. Get your body in front of the other fellow every time. Never tackle from behind unless you have to. If you’re behind him he will drag you forward, but if you’re in front of him he’s got to stop. Come on now! First man! You, Leonard! Hard! Hard!”

It was rather interesting work. The dummy proved astonishingly elusive and scarcely one of the tyros connected on the first attempt. Even the more experienced Pentland failed and Jerry got only an armful of air and a mouthful of dirt as his portion. But they all did better at the second attempt and at last Jackson had to grunt approval now and then. And once he had to caution Jerry.

“I said to tackle hard, Benson, but I didn’t tell you to wreck the whole works!” he said.

Jerry grinned as he wiped the soil from his cheek and went back to the end of the line, for he had certainly stopped the old bag of rags that time!

Eventually Jackson called a halt and dismissed them with final words of wisdom. “You fellows have done mighty well,” he said, “for beginners. Keep it up and you may get somewhere. But you’ve got to work hard if you want to stick around. Now when you get over to the gym go to Riordan and see that he weighs you. Do that every day until he tells you you don’t have to. Watch your eating and use sense. Don’t gobble your food and don’t eat a lot of stuff that just tastes good but doesn’t help you any. Sleep all you can, but don’t do it after seven in the morning. It’s the sleep you get early that does the most good. It isn’t my place to give you all his dope, but you fellows have tried hard to-day and I’d like to see every last one of you make good. Beat it now. Better not stay around the field unless you put blankets over your shoulders, either. Best thing for you-all is a cool shower and a good rubdown. That’s all!”

That evening Jerry was tired and sore in many unaccustomed localities, but he was also oddly elated, for he was conscious of having performed as well as any of his companions, not excepting Pentland, who, by reason of having played through last season’s series between the Houses, ought certainly to have excelled. Even when, attempting to move about with too much alacrity, he groaned in spirit, if not aloud, he was contented. A volunteer, he had won the commendation of his superior officer!

Tom made a good deal of fun of him that evening, solicitously feeling of his arms while Jerry winced and pretending admiration of a long scratch on one cheek. “It gives you quite a desperate look, Jerry,” Tom declared, “and that’s what you want. Half the battle’s in scaring the enemy beforehand. Look ferocious enough and he’s just bound to keep away from you. If you only had one eye closed, now, you’d look like a regular football thug!”

But Jerry didn’t mind his banter. Nor did it interfere, when continued at the supper table, with his appetite. He ate mightily, although circumspectly according to his limited knowledge of dietetics, and found a brand new enjoyment in food. Later, heroically refusing to accompany Tom and Joe to a lecture in Hall, he studied resolutely so long as he was able to keep his eyes open. When Tom got back he found Jerry fast asleep with his head pillowed on Moreton’s _Algebra for Use in Schools and Colleges_.

In such manner began Jerry’s football career, and in much the same manner it continued for the succeeding week or ten days, during which time West Shore Academy defeated North Bank by three points to none on North Bank’s own gridiron and pessimists shook their heads and predicted another season of defeat. Doubtless the pessimists lost sight of the fact that last season’s team had had to struggle along without the services of Jerry Benson!

That West Shore contest was disappointing, though, to even the most loyal adherents of the Light Blue. Everything went wrong that possibly could go wrong from the kick-off. Tub Keller was hurt in the first tackle and had to give way to Don Sears and Sears lasted only until half-time. Then Cleary took his place, and Cleary had had far too little experience and got his plays off so slowly that the enemy came piling through on top of him more than once. Omstead was off his game, and Duveen was certainly far from his best form, and when it came time for the Light Blue to smash her way across for a touchdown the smash wasn’t there and West Shore held her finally on the one-yard line and kicked out of danger. In the second quarter Conger had his nose broken, and Furchgott, who substituted, was no match for his opponent. It was Furchgott who was accountable for the three points scored by the enemy, for it was through his position that the West Shore tackle broke in time to block Duveen’s punt and chase it back to North Bank’s twenty-two yards. West Shore tried one attack on the line, failed at a forward pass and then, on third down, kicked a goal from the field.

North Bank got rather better as the game progressed, and twice in the fourth period she was within the enemy’s thirty, but always the punch necessary to take the pigskin across the last white lines was missing. Jerry watched the game through from the bench, pride in the privilege marred by sorrow over the team’s defeat. There were times when it seemed to him that, had he been in his place, he could have done better than one or other of the players!