The High School Left End Part 31

"Why, bully old Dr. Thornton used to drop in for a few minutes, 'most every practice afternoon?" replied Hudson. "I can remember just how his full, kindly old face, with the twinkling eyes, used to encourage the fellows up to the prettiest work that was in then. Oh, he was a mascot---Dr. Thornton was!"

Coach Morton was of the same mind, but he didn't say so, as it would sound like a rejection on the present unpopular princ.i.p.al, Abner Cantwell.

This afternoon there was no real team practice Mr. Morton wanted certain individual play features brought out more strongly. One of these was the kicking of the ball.

After several had worked with the pigskin Morton called out:

"Now, Prescott, you take the ball, and drop back to the twenty-five-yard line. When you get there name your shot---that is, tell us where you intend to put the ball. Where doesn't matter as long as it is a long kick and a true one. After you name your shot, then run swiftly to the center of the field. From there, without a long pause, kick and see how straight you can drive for the point you have named."

"All right, sir," nodded d.i.c.k. Tucking the pigskin under his arm, he jogged back to the twenty-five-yard line.

"Right over there!" called d.i.c.k, pointing. "I'll try to drop the ball in the front row of seats, second section past the entrance."

"Very good, Prescott!"

No one was sitting in the section named by Prescott, but a few onlookers who had been squatting in a section near by hastily moved.

"The duffers! They needn't think I am going to hit them with the ball," muttered d.i.c.k. Then he started on a hard run.

Just at center he stopped abruptly, swung back his right foot and dropped the ball.

It was a hard, fast drive. The ball arched upward, somewhat, though it did not travel high.

But to d.i.c.k, standing still to watch the effect of his kick there came a sudden jolt. A man had just appeared, walking through the entrance pa.s.sage. His head, well up above the sloping sides of the pa.s.sage at this point, was not right in line with the ball.

And that man was Princ.i.p.al Cantwell!

Several members of the squad saw what might happen, but every one of them was too eagerly expectant to make a sound to prevent the threatened catastrophe.

d.i.c.k saw and half s.h.i.+vered. Yet in his desire to say something in the fewest words of warning, all he could think of was:

"Low bridge!"

Nor did Coach Morton succeed in thinking of anything more helpful, for he shouted only:

"Mr. Cantwell!"

"Eh?" asked the princ.i.p.al, turning toward the coach and therefore not seeing the ball that was now nearly upon him.

Mr. Cantwell, on this afternoon, having a few calls in mind, had arrayed himself in his best. He wore a long black frock coat which, he imagined, made him look at least as distinguished as a diplomat. In the matter of silk hats, being decidedly economical, Mr. Cantwell allowed himself a new one only once in two years.

But new one had been due; he had just bought one, and now wore this glossy thing in the latest style.

There was no time for more warning.

The descending ball was in straight line with that elegant hat.

b.u.mp! The pigskin struck the hat full and fair, carrying it from the princ.i.p.al's head.

On sailed hat and football for some three feet, the hat managing to run upside down.

R-r-r-rip! The force with which the football was traveling impaled the hat on a picket at the side of the stand. Then, as if satisfied with fits work, the football struck and bounded back, landing at the princ.i.p.al's feet.

For one moment Mr. Cantwell was dumb with amazement.

Then he saw his impaled hat and realized the extent and tragedy of his loss. The angered man went white with wrath.

"What ruffian did that!" he roared.

But the boys, unable to hold in any longer, had let out a concerted though half-suppressed "whoop!" and now came running to the spot.

"Who kicked my hat off?" demanded the princ.i.p.al, pointing tragically to the piece of headgear, through the crown and past the rim of which the picket now stood up as though in triumph.

"You---you got in the way of---the ball, sir," explained Drayne, trying hard to keep from roaring out with laughter.

"But some one kicked the ball my way," insisted the princ.i.p.al, with utter sternness. "Don't tell me that no one did! That football could not By through the air without some one propelling it.

Now, young gentlemen, who kicked that ball?"

"I did, Mr. Cantwell," admitted d.i.c.k, pus.h.i.+ng his way through the throng. "And I'm very sorry that anything like this has happened, sir."

"On, you did it, oh?" demanded the princ.i.p.al, eyeing the young man witheringly. "And you actually expect an apology to restore my new and expensive hat to its former pristine condition of splendor?"

"I didn't know you were there, sir," d.i.c.k explained. "You didn't appear until just after I had kicked the ball."

"Prescott is quite right, Mr. Cantwell," put in Coach Morton.

"None of us knew you were here in the pa.s.sage until the ball had been kicked---not, in fact, until the ball was almost upon you."

"Then, when you saw me, why didn't you call out to warn me?" demanded the princ.i.p.al, still fearfully angry, though trying to keep back unparliamentary language.

"I did call out, sir," replied d.i.c.k. "There was mighty little time to think, but I called out the two quickest words I could think of."

"What did you call?" demanded the princ.i.p.al.

"I yelled 'low bridge!'"

"A most idiotic expression," snorted the princ.i.p.al. "What on earth does it mean, anyway?"

"It means to duck, sir," Prescott answered.

"Duck?" retorted Mr. Cantwell, glaring suspiciously at the sober-faced young left end. "Now, what on earth does 'duck' mean, unless you refer to a web-footed species of poultry?"

"Prescott was rattled, beyond a doubt, Mr. Cantwell," interposed Coach Morton. "So was I---the time was so short. All I could think of as to call out to you by name."

"With the result that I looked your way--- and lost my row hat,"

snapped the princ.i.p.al. He now turmoil to take the spoiled article off the paling. He looked at it almost in anguish, for he had been very proud of that glossy article.

"It's a shame," muttered Drayne, with mock sympathy.

"That's what it is," agreed Dave Darrin innocently. "But---Mr.