Tom Fairfield's Pluck and Luck Part 10

Tom was called on several times, and, though he watched Sam narrowly, there was no further cause for complaint about the pa.s.sing of the ball.

"Maybe it was a mistake," thought Tom, "but I'm going to be on the lookout just the same. I don't trust Sam h.e.l.ler."

"That will do for to-day," called the coach, after two touchdowns had been rolled up against the scrub, Tom making one of them. "Take a good shower and a rub now, all of you, scrub included, for there's no telling when I may want one of you scrub lads on the first team.

You're doing pretty well," he allowed himself to compliment them. "But there's lots to be done yet. We're only beginning. Morse, come here, I want to talk to you," and captain and coach walked off the gridiron, arm in arm.

"Well, what do you think of it?" asked Jack of Tom, as the two came out of the gymnasium, glowing from a rub and shower.

"Oh, it seemed to go all right."

"h.e.l.ler try any mean tricks?" asked Bert.

"I thought he did, but maybe I was mistaken. Oh, but I got one beaut kick on the s.h.i.+n," and Tom gently ma.s.saged the leg in question.

"Some lad tried to gouge out one of my eyes," added Bert.

"And if I have any skin left on my nose I'm lucky," a.s.serted Jack, trying to look cross-eyed at his nasal member.

"It's just a little sunburned," said Tom, with a laugh. "I guess we'll have a team after a bit."

"Sure!" chorused his chums.

Practice went on for several days after this, and there were a number of changes of position made, though Sam was still at quarterback, and Tom held his same place.

"Now, fellows, we're going to have a little different form of exercise to-morrow," announced the coach, at the conclusion of a short game one afternoon. "I want you all to take part in a cross-country run. It will improve your wind, and work some of the fat off you fellows that can stand losing it. It will be good for your legs, too.

"We'll start from the gym after last lectures, hit the turnpike for Aldenhurst, cross the river at Weldon, circle up the hill through Marsden, and come back along the river road. You can go in bunches, or singly as you choose, but you must all make those towns, and there'll be checkers at each one to see that you don't skip. It's only fifteen miles, and you ought to do it in four hours without turning a hair.

There'll be a five-hour time limit, and those who don't make all the checking points, and report back by eight o'clock will be scratched off the active football list. That's all."

A silence followed the announcement of the coach, and then came several murmurs of disapproval.

"Fifteen miles!" came from Sam h.e.l.ler. "That's a stiff run all right."

"I should say yes," agreed Nick Johnson.

"Can't we shorten it in some way?" asked Sam of his crony in a whisper, but not so low that Tom did not overhear him.

"Dry up!" commanded Nick. "I'll see. Maybe we can cut off a few miles. Fifteen is too much!"

"He sure is working us," said Jack to Tom.

"And a time limit," added Bert, with a note of grievance in his voice.

"Oh pshaw!" exclaimed, Tom. "Anyone would think you fellows had never tramped before. Why in camp you thought nothing of doing twenty miles in a day."

"But we could take our time," a.s.serted Bert.

"Nonsense! We always did better than four miles an hour and never minded it. Come on, be sports! We'll go together, won't we?"

"Sure," said Bert. "Well, if it has to be, it has to--that's all.

Hang it! I wonder if I want to play football anyhow?"

"Of course you do," said Tom. "We'll have some fun on the run. And think of the supper we will eat after it. I'm going to see if we can't have a little something extra."

And he went to the kitchen of the eating hall where he and his chums dined, to wheedle the chef into serving generous portions after the cross-country run.

CHAPTER VIII

LOST IN THE WOODS

"Fairfield, Fitch, Wilson, Abbot," remarked the official checker-out, as Tom and his three chums trotted out of the door of the gymnasium on the afternoon of the cross-country run. "All right boys. Getting away in good time," and the Senior student who was acting in the official capacity smiled in rather a patronizing manner. "Now if you check in together you'll be doing well. Take it easy. You haven't got much of a run, and you've oceans of time to do it in."

"Huh! I guess you think this isn't much of a Marathon," remarked Jack, pausing to address the checker, who had marked their names down on a slip of paper.

"Neither it is, son," came the answer. "In my day we had lots of stiffer ones."

"And did the fellows all make good?" asked Tom, for though he and his chums had spent one year at Elmwood Hall this was the first big run they had taken part in, and on it depended much--their chance to play on the big eleven.

"Oh, most of 'em did," replied the Senior. "Of course some couldn't stand the pace, and others wouldn't. But, as I say, it was stiffer in those days. I don't know what the world is coming to, anyhow," and he looked as though he had on his shoulders a large share of the responsibility of regulating the universe. "You'd better cut away, fellows," he added, "for, though you've got lots of time, it's better to loaf on the other end of the run than on this one. Hike!"

"He doesn't give himself any airs; does he? Oh no!" exclaimed Bert sarcastically, as he jogged along beside his chums.

"Oh, that's the way with all Seniors," said Jack.

"I hope we'll not be," murmured Tom.

"Do you think we will?" asked George Abbot. "I wonder what makes Seniors think they're so high and mighty? Do you think we'll make this run? Will------"

"Foolish question number six thousand four hundred and twenty-one!"

interrupted Tom, with a laugh. "Now if you're going to start on your interrogatory stunt, Georgie my lad, you'll make this run alone. I'm not going to get dry in the roof of my mouth answering questions."

"All right, I won't ask any more," promised the lad who was such a questioner.

"I wonder who are just ahead of us?" asked Bert, as he stopped a second to tie a loose shoe lace.

"Let's ask," suggested Tom.

He halted and hurled back this question at the checking Senior, who sat near the door of the gymnasium.

"Who's ahead of us, Rockford?"

"Let's see," and the checker consulted his slips. "Oh, Sam h.e.l.ler and Nick Johnson," he answered. "They've got four minutes start of you."

"All right; thanks!" shouted Tom, as he again took up his stride.

"Say, let's pa.s.s 'em," suggested Jack. "I'd rather be ahead of 'em, than behind, anyhow."