The Guarded Heights Part 10
II
George, since he had nothing else to do, walked home. Bailly could get him in if he would. Did it really depend in part on the inspection he would have to undergo that afternoon? It was hard there was nothing he could do to prepare himself. He went to the yard, to which the landlady had condemned Sylvia's bulldog, and, to kill time, played with the friendly animal until luncheon. Afterward he sat in his room before Sylvia's portrait impressing on himself the necessity of strength for the coming ordeal.
His landlady directed him glibly enough to the field house. As he crossed the practice gridiron, not yet chalked out, he saw Bailly on the verandah; and, appearing very small and st.u.r.dy beside him, a gray-haired, pleasant-faced man whose small eyes were relentless.
"This is the prospect, Green," George heard Bailly say.
The trainer studied George for some time before he nodded his head.
"A build to hurt and not get hurt," he said at last; "but, Mr. Bailly, it's hard to supply experience. Boys come here who have played all their lives, and they know less than nothing. Bone seems to grow naturally in the football cranium."
He shifted back to George.
"How fast are you?"
"I've never timed myself, but I'm hard to catch."
"Get out there," the trainer directed.
"In those clothes?" Bailly asked.
"Why not? The ground's dry. A man wouldn't run any faster with moleskins and cleats. Now you run 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 gra.s.s 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sed 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 Na.s.sau 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 Na.s.sau 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.