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The Grammar School Boys of Gridley, a fiction by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 3. Football--Without Rules |
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_ CHAPTER III. FOOTBALL--WITHOUT RULES School was out for the day. Three quarters of the boys belonging to the four upper grades made a bee line for a field about a block away. The magnet was a football that Dave Darrin proudly carried tucked under his left arm. "I wanter play!" "Let me try just one good kick with it, Dave!" "Take a stroll," advised Darrin laconically. "How can I blow up the ball and talk to you fellows, too?" "Hurry up, then. We want to give the ball a fierce old kick." "No kids in this," announced Dave, rather loftily. "Only fellows in the eighth and seventh grades. Fellows in the grades below the seventh are only kids and would get hurt." "Oh, say!" "That isn't fair!" The protests were many and vigorous from sixth and fifth-grade boys, but Darrin, ignoring them all, went placidly on inflating the pigskin. At last the task was completed. "Hurrah! Now, Dave, give it a boost and let us all have some fun!" cried the boys. But Darrin coolly tucked the ball under one arm. "Dick Prescott has a few remarks to make first," Dave announced. "Dick going to make a speech?" "Cut it, and start the ball moving!" "Won't you fellows interrupt your music lessons long enough to listen to an idea that some of us have been talking over?" called Dick. "Now, fellows, you know this is the time when the crack Gridley High School football team is hard at work. We're all proud of the Gridley High School eleven. A lot of you fellows expect to go to High School, and I know you'd all like a chance to play on Gridley High's eleven." "Set the ball moving!" "Wait a minute," Dick insisted. "Now, fellows, no Grammar School in Gridley has ever had an eleven." "How could we," came a discontented wail, "if we have to stand here and see Dave just do nothing but hold the ball?" "Fellows," Dick went on impressively, "it's time to have Grammar School football teams here in Gridley. Central Grammar ought to have one, North Grammar one and South Grammar one. Then our three Grammar Schools could play a championship series among themselves." "Hooray! Give the ball a throw, Dave!" "So, fellows," Dick continued, "a lot of us think we ought to organize a football team at once. Then we can challenge North Grammar and South Grammar. We can practise the rest of this month, and next month we can play off our games. What do you say?" "Hooray!" "We'll have two teams," called Dave. "We'll call one team the Rangers and the other the Rustlers. Now, let's make Dick captain of the Rangers." "All right!" "And Tom Craig captain of the Rustlers." "Good!" "All right, then," nodded Dave. "Dick, you pick out the Rangers; Craig, you go ahead with the Rustlers. After we've practised a few times we'll pick the best men from both elevens, and make up the Central Grammar eleven. Get busy, captains!" Forthwith the choosing began. Dick chose all his chums for his own eleven. And no boy lower than seventh grade was allowed on either team. "Now, who'll be referee?" demanded Dick. "Captain Craig, have you any choice?" "Have we got any fellows, not on either team, who really know the rules?" asked Tom Craig dubiously. There was a hush, for this was surely a stumbling block. It seemed clear that a referee ought to know the rules of the game. "What's up, kids?" called a friendly voice. The speaker was Len Spencer, a young man who had been graduated from the High School the June before, and who was now serving his apprenticeship as reporter on one of the two local daily papers, the morning "Blade." "Oh, see here, Len!" called Dick joyously. "You're just the right fellow for us. You know the football rules?" "I have a speaking acquaintance with 'em," laughed Len. Dick rapidly outlined what was being planned, adding: "You can put that in the 'Blade' to-morrow morning, Len, and state our challenge to North and South Grammars. Won't you?" "Surely." "But we want to practise this afternoon," Dick continued earnestly, "and we haven't any referee. Len, can't you spare us a little time? Won't you boss the first practice for us?" "All right," agreed Len, after a little thought. "I'll tackle it for a while. Have you got your teams picked?" "Teams all picked, and the ball ready. We'll have to place stones for goal posts, though." "Hustle and do it, then," commanded Len. "I can't stay here forever." Five minutes later the field was as ready as it could be made. "Captains will now attend the toss-up," ordered Len Spencer, producing a coin from one of his pockets. "Heads for Craig, tails for Prescott." It fell head up, and Craig chose his goal, and also the first kick-off. Dick had been busily engaged in making up his line and backfield. There was some delay while Tom Craig accomplished this same thing. "Now, one thing that all you youngsters want to remember," declared Len, "is that no player can play off-side. All ready?" Both young football captains called out that they were. Len had provided himself with a pocket whistle loaned by one of the fifth-grade boys. Trill-ll! Tom Craig kicked the ball himself, but it was a poor kick. The pigskin soon struck the ground. "I'll try that over again," announced Tom. But Dick and his own fighting line had already started. Dick, at center, with Dave on his right hand and Greg Holmes on his left, snatched up the ball and started with it for the Rustlers' goal. A bunch of Rustlers opposed and tackled Prescott. Dick succeeded, by the help of Dave and Greg, in breaking through the line, but the Rustlers turned and were after him. Down went Dick, but he had the pigskin under him. "Take it away from him, fellows!" panted Craig. But Len blew his whistle, following up the signal by some sharp commands that brought the struggle to a close. "Prescott's side have the ball," declared Len, "and will now play off a snap-back. And, boys, one thing I must emphasize. I've told you that under the rules no man may play off-side. So, hereafter, if I find any of you off-side, I'm going to penalize that eleven." Dick was whispering to some of his players, for, without any code of signals, he must thus instruct his fellows in the play that was to be made with the ball. Then the whistle sounded. The Rangers put the ball through the Rustlers' line, and onward for some fifteen yards before the ball was once more down. "Good work, Prescott," nodded Len Spencer. "Now, pass your orders for the next play, then hustle into line and snap-back." Len placed the whistle between his lips and was about to blow it when Dave Darrin darted forward, holding up one hand. "What's the trouble?" asked Len. "Mr. Referee, count the men on the other team." "Fifteen players," summed up Len. "That's too many. Captain Craig, you'll have to shed four men." "Oh, let him have 'em all," begged Dick serenely. "Craig'll need 'em all to keep us from breaking through with the ball." At blast of the whistle the pigskin was promptly in play again, both teams starting in with Indian yells. There was plenty of enthusiasm, but little or no skill. The thing became so mixed up that Len ran closer. A human heap formed. Greg Holmes was somewhere down near the bottom of that mix-up, holding on to the ball for all he was worth. Over him sprawled struggling Rangers and fighting Rustlers. Other players, from both teams, darted forward, hurling themselves onto the heap with immense enthusiasm. "The ball is down," remarked one eager young spectator disgustedly. "Len oughter blow his whistle." "Yes, where's the whistle?" demanded other close-by spectators. From somewhere away down toward the bottom of the heap came Len Spencer's muffled remark: "I'll blow the whistle all right, if half a hundred of you Indians will get off my face for a minute!" "Come out of that tangle, all of you," ordered Tom Craig, after pulling himself out of the squirming heap of boys. "It's against the rules to smother the referee to death. He has to be killed painlessly." When the tangle had been straightened out Greg Holmes was found to be still doubled up, holding doggedly to the pigskin that had been his to guard. "Get ready for the next snap-back," ordered Captain Dick. "Don't do anything of the sort," countermanded Len. "I can see that what you youngsters need more than play, just at present, is a working knowledge of the rules. So listen, and I'll introduce you to a few principles of the game." After ten minutes of earnest talk Len Spencer allowed the ball to be put once more in play. At one time it was discovered that Craig, reinforced by enthusiastic onlookers from the sidelines, had seventeen men in his team. Dick, on the other hand, kept an alert eye to see that no more than eleven ranged up with his team. "Now, that's enough for the first day," called out Len at last. "Neither side won, but the Rangers had by far the better of it. Now, before you fellows play to-morrow I advise you all to do some earnest studying of the rules of the game." "Don't make too much fun of us in the 'Blade,' will you, Mr. Spencer?" begged Dick. "We really want to get a good Central Grammar eleven at work. We want to play the other Grammar Schools in town." "Oh, no one but a fool could find it in his heart to make fun of boys who display as much earnestness as you youngsters showed to-day," Spencer replied soothingly. "It's the first time we ever tried real play, you know," Dick went on. "Yes; and you'll have to do a lot more practising before you can convince any one that you are doing any real playing," Len nodded. "Go after the rules. Memorize 'em. And watch the High School crowd play football. That will teach you a lot." "I know we need it," Dick sighed. "But then, you see, Grammar School football is a brand-new thing." "Why, now I come to think of it, I don't believe I ever did hear before of a Grammar School eleven," Len Spencer admitted. At least twenty other boys followed Dick and his chums from the field on the way home. "Say, Dick," called Tom Craig, "is the Central Grammar team going to have a uniform?" "Why, I suppose we must have one," Dick answered. "Where are we going to get the money?" Dick looked blank at that. A football uniform costs at least a few dollars, and who ever heard of an average Grammar School boy having a few dollars, all his own to spend? "I hadn't thought of that," muttered Prescott. "Oh, well, we'll have to find some way of getting uniforms. We've got to have 'em. That's all there is to it." "'Where there's a will there's a way,'" quoted Tom Reade blithely. But most of the fellows shook their heads. "We can't get uniforms," declared several of the older eighth-grade boys. "Then, if we can't we'll have to play without uniforms," Dick maintained. "We've got to play somehow. I hope you fellows won't go and lose your enthusiasm. Let's all hang together for football." One by one the other boys dropped off, until only Dick and his five chums were left at a corner on Main Street. "I'm afraid a lot of the fellows will go and let their enthusiasm cool over night," declared Harry Hazelton. "Remember, fellows, we've got to have our football eleven, and we've got to keep at it until we can really play a good game," insisted Dick. "But what if most all the fellows drop out?" demanded Dan Dalzell. "You know, that's the trouble with Grammar School fellows. They don't stick." "There are six of us, and we'll all stick," proclaimed Dick. "That means that we've got to get only five other fellows to stick. Surely we can do that, if we've got hustle enough in us to play football at all." "Oh, we'll have our eleven somehow," insisted Dave positively. "How about our uniforms?" Tom Reade wanted to know. "We'll have them, too," asserted Dick. "I don't know just how we'll do it, but we'll manage." Dick Prescott and his chums were in much better spirits after that brief consultation. Then they separated, each going to his home for supper. Dick's father and mother were proprietors of the most popular bookstore in Gridley. It stood on one of the side streets, just a little way down from Main Street. Over the store were the living rooms of the family. Dick was an only child. After stowing away such an evening meal as only a healthy boy knows how to take care of, Dick reached for his cap. "I'm going out to meet the fellows, mother, if you don't mind," said young Prescott. "I'm sorry to say that there's just one matter that will delay you for perhaps twenty minutes," replied Mrs. Prescott. "Mrs. Davis was in and ordered some books this afternoon. She wants them delivered this evening, so I said I'd send you around with them. That won't bother you much, will it?" "Not so much but that I'll get over it," laughed the boy. "Maybe I'll pick up one or two of the fellows, anyway." "Richard, I'd rather you'd deliver the books before you meet any of your friends," urged Mrs. Prescott. "The books are worth about ten dollars, and if you have some of your friends along you may begin skylarking, and some of the books may get damaged." "All right, mother. I'll go alone." Off Dick started with the bundle, whistling blithely. All his thoughts were centered on the forming of the Central Grammar eleven, and that plan now looked like a winner. "We won't let the High School fellows have all the fun," young Prescott mused as he hurried along. He reached the rather large and handsome Davis house, rang the bell, delivered his books and then started back. His evening, up to nine o'clock, was now his own to do with as he pleased. Suddenly the thought of the happenings at noon came back to his mind. "What a mean fellow that Dexter is!" muttered the Grammar School boy. "I've heard folks say that Dexter is mean enough, and scoundrel enough, to kill his wife one of these days. Whew! I should think it would hurt to be so all-fired mean, and to have everyone despising you, as folks seem to despise Dexter. I hope the upper court will give him six months in jail, instead of one." Prescott was moving along a dark street now. It bordered a broad field, back of which stood a deep grove. At the street end of the field was a neat, solid, stone wall. Had Dick been looking ahead all the time he would have seen a man, coming down the street, start, take a swift look at the boy, and then dart behind a tree. But Prescott did not see until he reached the tree. Then the man stepped out. "Prescott!" uttered Abner Dexter hoarsely, "I've been wanting to see you again!" "That's more than I can say about you," retorted Dick, trying to edge away. "No! You don't get away from me like that!" hissed Ab. Dexter sharply, twisting a hand on Dick's collar. Lifting the boy from his feet, Dexter hurled him over the wall into the field. "Now, I'm going to settle with you, young meddler!" announced Dexter, vaulting the wall and throwing himself upon Dick. "When I get through with you you'll never feel like meddling with any one again!" _ |
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