UNCLE EZRA ARRIVES
For a moment Dick half thought it was a joke, and he was about to laugh it off. The idea of a member of the football squad—even though temporarily deposed from the team, stopping another team member when on athletic business, even though against the rules, was almost unheard of.
"I guess it's all right—you might remember the countersign for me," said Dick lightly.
"Not much!" snapped Porter.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't choose to. You're under arrest and you will so report to Major Webster.
"Do you mean it?"
"I certainly do."
"But it's—it's so unusual."
"That's just the reason I'm doing it. They make a fellow do guard duty on a frosty night, to catch guard-runners, and then some one kicks when he does it. No, I'm in earnest, and if some of the other fellows who do sentry-go would be the same, they'd stop this. I don't care enough about war tactics to be a sentry, but as long as I am here no one can run the guard on me."
"I wasn't running the guard. I told you where I was going. I want to see if Hatfield had heard from the Haskell team yet."
"And I find you headed toward the stable where your dog is kept, so I can believe you or not as I choose."
Dick started. It was, in a measure telling him that he had not spoken the truth and for a brief moment he felt the hot blood mount to his head. Then he calmed down as he remembered that he was captain of the eleven, and, in a measure responsible to his men for his conduct. Besides, he reflected quickly, Porter might be trying to force him into a quarrel, and that would never do.
"Very well," answered Dick, as quietly as he could, "I'll report to the major. Good night!" He swung on his heel and turned aside.
"Um!" was the only reply that Porter grunted out, as he resumed the patrolling of his post.
"Well?" asked Paul, as his chum entered.
"Not well—bad. I was caught."
"By whom?"
"Porter."
"Porter. Hum! Was he in earnest about it?"
"He seemed so," and Dick recounted the conversation.
"Well, there's something in what he says," agreed Paul. "Sentry-go is no fun, but as long as we're at a military school we have to do it once in a while. Still if enough of us enforced the rules, as I suppose we ought to do, there'd be one of two things happen. They'd either abolish it, or running the guard would stop, and there wouldn't be anything for the sentries to do."
"That's so. Well, I'm the goat to-night. Might as well have a bad job over with. I'm going to report."
"Then you didn't see Hatfield?"
"No, we'll have to wait until morning to hear."
Dick went off in no very happy frame of mind, and he was a little uneasy as to what form of punishment the major would mete out. But he was fortunate in finding that old soldier entertaining a war comrade in his room, and swapping campaign stories. The major was, therefore, in a very amiable mood, and after listening to Dick's frank report said:
"Hum! Well, don't do it again. You may write me out a page of field tactics and consider yourself relieved of arrest. Don't do it again. Good night, Captain Hamilton."
Dick saluted and swung away, highly pleased at the lightness of his task. He heard the major and his comrade-in-arms laughing as he strode away, and the instructor in tactics exclaimed:
"That's not a circumstance to what we used to do, eh, Ned, when we were camped near some city and wanted to go in and have a good time?"
"That's right," agreed his friend.
Dick's little escapade was known all over the academy next morning, and there was almost universal condemnation of Porter's act. But Dick, to the no small astonishment of his chums, declared that the deposed left-end had done just right.
"What are you sticking up for him for?" asked Paul in some indignation. "It'll get so all the other sentries will do the same thing."
"Well, that might not be so bad. Besides, I do think he did right—even though class custom is against it. Then, too, I don't want to get on unfriendly terms with him. I hope to keep in touch with that old miser Duncaster through Porter."
"Oh, yes, about your father's business. How is it coming on?"
"Not very well. I hear that the other side has made a very good offer to Mr. Duncaster, but he has turned them down the same as he did me. There are other matters cropping up, however, that make things complicated in the electric road business, and poor dad is worried to death. I don't know what his next move will be."
"Did you hear whether or not we'll have a game with Haskell?"
"No, but here comes Hatfield now. We'll ask him. He has some mail, perhaps he just heard."
"It's all right!" joyfully called the manager, waving a letter at Dick. "They'll play us next Saturday. Those coaches must have quite a pull."
"Will they put in their first team?" asked Dick anxiously, for there would be little glory in beating the Haskell scrub.
"They'll do that, and also come here to give us a game."
"On our own grounds? Good!" cried Paul. "We'll play our heads off!"
"It's great!" declared Dick. "I only hope we—but there of course we're going to win!" and he changed his sentence with an assumed confidence he hardly felt.
"Will we work any of the new plays on 'em?" asked Paul. "I like the wing shifts and the sequence plays."
"We'll work 'em if we get a chance," said Dick. "It will all depend on what sort of a game they put up. We may have to kick a lot."
"Well, we're up to snuff on that line," declared the manager. "Now I must arrange the details. I hope we get out a big crowd and make some money."
"And I hope the fellows come out to practice this afternoon," spoke Dick. "Come on Paul, we've got the science lecture on now."
The scrub, against whom the Varsity matched forces that afternoon, had been having some secret practice of their own, and they worked a couple of tricks on the rather surprised first team that netted a good gain, and eventually a touchdown.
"That's something you must be on the lookout for," said Mr. Martin, who was a bit chagrined over what had happened. "It isn't enough to play well on your own team, you must watch what the other fellow is doing. Now try again, and put some ginger into your work."
"Yes, you're getting a bit stale I'm afraid," declared Mr. Spencer, and he added some rather sharp words of correction.
The Varsity members were somewhat hurt. They did not know that the words were spoken intentionally, and to force them to do a little better.
The rebuke had the desired effect, and thereafter the unfortunate scrub team was shoved all over the gridiron, not only not getting within striking distance of their opponents' goal line, but having three touchdowns rolled up against them in short order.
"That's something like!" cried Mr. Martin in approval. "Now, Hamilton, try that wing shift," he whispered to Dick. "I think we can fool them."
It was a well executed play, and when the man with the ball got safely away, and through the scrub line Dick slipped and fell, for the ground was soft from a recent rain. Down he went at full length into a puddle, with another player on top of him, and when he arose he was rather a sorry-looking sight, but not injured.
Time was called directly after that, and as the players filed off the field, passing through a little knot of spectators, Dick heard his name called.
"Well, of all the disgraceful sights, you certainly present one!" exclaimed a rasping voice. There was a menancing growl from Grit, whom one of Dick's friends held in leash. Our hero looked toward where the voice had sounded.
"Uncle Ezra!" he faltered, as he saw his grim-visaged relative.
"Yes, I'm here, and I must say of all the brutal exhibitions I ever saw, this is the worst. I never saw a bull fight, but it can't be much worse!"
There was some laughter at this, and Dick looked at his crabbed uncle in some alarm.
"Have you come to see me?" he asked.
"Not exactly. I came because your father is in trouble, and I want to help him."
"Trouble? What kind—the—" began our hero.
"If you'll go somewhere and get washed up, and put some clean clothes on, so you won't look so much like a tramp, I'll talk to you," said Mr. Larabee stiffly. "I've come to take you back home, Nephew Richard."