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THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON




BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.

Each, 12mo, Cloth, Illustrated.


Weatherby's Inning.

Illustrated in Colors. $1.25 net; postage, 12 cents additional.


Behind the Line.

A Story of School and Football. $1.20 net; postage, 12 cents additional.


Captain of the Crew.

$1.20 net; postage, 12 cents additional.


For the Honor of the School.

A Story of School Life and Interscholastic Sport. $1.50.


The Half-Back.

A Story of School, Football, and Golf. $1.50.


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.




[Illustration: The captain was holding his head.]




                                  THE
                          ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON

                           And Other Stories
                          for Boys about Boys

                                  BY

                          RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

            AUTHOR OF BEHIND THE LINE, WEATHERBY'S INNING,
                          ON YOUR MARK! ETC.


                             _ILLUSTRATED_


                            [Illustration]


                               New York
                        D. Appleton and Company
                                 1904




                          Copyright, 1904, by
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

_Published, September, 1904_




                                  TO
                               H. D. R.

                           IN MEMORY OF THE
                           WINTER OF '98-'99




The following stories first appeared in St. Nicholas, The Youth's
Companion, Pearson's Magazine, and The Brown Book. To the editors
of these periodicals the author's thanks are due for permission to
republish the tales.




CONTENTS


                                 PAGE
  THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON            1
  BARCLAY'S BONFIRE                30
  MARTY BROWN--MASCOT              42
  PARMELEE'S "SPREAD"              75
  "NO HOLDING"                     96
  CLASS SPIRIT                    117
  THE FATHER OF A HERO            136
  THE HAZING OF SATTERLEE 2D      161
  A PAIR OF POACHERS              185
  BREWSTER'S DEBUT                209
  "MITTENS"                       234




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                  FACING
                                                                   PAGE
  The captain was holding his head.           _Frontispiece_
  Jimpson felt like an outcast, and looked like an Indian.             9
  There was one kind of ball that Marty knew all about.               71
  "Duty!" frothed Morris.                                            130
  Tom moved the net toward the prey.                                 198
  Ned trotted over the plate into the arms of "Big Jim" Milford.     232




THE ARRIVAL OF JIMPSON

Copyright, 1898, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved.


I

THE DEPARTURE

The rain fell in a steady, remorseless drizzle upon the rain-coats
and umbrellas of the throng that blocked the sidewalks and overflowed
on to the car-tracks; but the fires of patriotism were unquenchable,
and a thousand voices arose to the leaden sky in a fierce clamor of
intense enthusiasm. It had rained all night. The streets ran water,
and the spouts emptied their tides between the feet of the cheerers.
The lumbering cars, their crimson sides glistening, clanged their way
carefully through the crowds, and lent a dash of color to the scene.
The back of Grays loomed cheerless and bleak through the drizzle, and
beyond, the college yard lay deserted. In store windows the placards
were hidden behind the blurred and misty panes, and farther up the
avenue, the tattered red flag above Foster's hung limp and dripping.

Under the leafless elm, the barge, filled to overflowing with departing
heroes, stood ready for its start to Boston. On the steps, bareheaded
and umbrellaless, stood Benham, '95, who, with outstretched and waving
arms, was tempting the throng into ever greater vocal excesses.

"Now, then, fellows! Three times three for Meredith."

"'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'rah, 'rah, 'rah! Meredith!" A
thousand throats raised the cry; umbrellas clashed wildly in mid-air;
the crowd surged to and fro; horses curveted nervously; and the rain
poured down impartially upon the reverend senior and the clamorous
freshman.

"Fellows, you're not _half_ cheering!" cried the relentless Benham.
"Now, three long Harvards, three times three and three long Harvards
for the team."

"Har-vard, Har-vard, Har-vard! 'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! 'rah, 'rah, 'rah!
'rah, 'rah, 'rah! Har-vard, Har-vard, Har-vard! Team!"

Inside the coach there was a babel of voices. Members of the eleven
leaned out and conversed jerkily with friends on the sidewalk. Valises
and suit-cases were piled high in the aisle and held in the owners'
laps. The manager was checking off his list.

"Cowper?"

"Here."

"Turner?"

"All right."

"Truesdale?"

"Hey? Oh, yes; I'm here." The manager folded the list. Then a penciled
line on the margin caught his eye.

"Who's Jameson? Jameson here?"

"Should be Jimpson," corrected the man next to him; and a low voice
called from the far end of the barge:

"Here, sir." It sounded so much like the response of a schoolboy
to the teacher that the hearers laughed with the mirth begot of
tight-stretched nerves. A youth wearing a faded brown ulster, who
was between Gates, the big center, and the corner of the coach, grew
painfully red in the face, and went into retirement behind the big
man's shoulder.

"Who is this fellow Jimpson?" queried a man in a yellow mackintosh.

"Jimpson? He's a freshie. Trying for right half-back all fall. I
suppose Brattle took him along, now that Ward's given up, to substitute
Sills. They say he's an A 1 runner, and plucky. He's played some on the
second eleven. Taunton told me, the other day, that he played great
ball at Exeter, last year."

The strident strains of the Washington Post burst out on the air,
urging the cheerers to even greater efforts. They were cheering
indiscriminately now. Trainer, rubbers, and coaches had received their
shares of the ovation. But Benham, '95, with his coat soaked through,
was still unsatisfied, and sought for further tests. Two professors,
half hidden under umbrellas, had emerged from the yard, and were
standing at a little distance, watching the scene.

"Three times three for Professor Dablee!" The cheers that followed were
mixed with laughter, and the two professors moved off, but not until
the identity of the second had been revealed, and the air had filled
with the refrain of "'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! Pollock!"

"They look as though they ought to win; don't you think so?" asked one
of them.

The other professor frowned.

"Yes, they look like that; every eleven does. You'd think, to see them
before a game, that nothing short of a pile-driver or dynamite could
drive them an inch. And a few days later they return, heartbroken and
defeated."

Across the square floated a husky bellow:

"Now, then, fellows! Once more! All together! Three times three for
Harvard!"

The band played wildly, frenziedly, out of time and tune; the crowd
strained its tired throats for one last farewell slogan; the men in the
barge waved their hands; the horses jumped forward; a belated riser in
Holyoke threw open a front window, and drowsily yelled, "_Shut up_";
and the Harvard eleven sped on its way up the avenue, and soon became a
blur in the gray vista.

"Say, Bob, you forgot to cheer Jimpson."

The wearied youth faced his accuser, struck an attitude indicative of
intense despair, and then joyfully seized the opportunity.

"Fellows! Fellows! Hold on! Three times three for Jim--Jim--who'd you
say?"

"Jimpson," prompted the friend.

"Three times three for Jimpson! Now, then, all together!"

"Say--who _is_ Jimpson?" shouted a dozen voices at once.

"Don't know. Don't care. Three times three for Jimpson!"

And so that youth, had he but known it, received a cheer, after all.
But he didn't know it--at least, not until long afterward, when cheers
meant so much less to him.


II

A LETTER

    NEW HAVEN, CONN., November 19.

    DEAR MOTHER: I can imagine your surprise upon receiving a
    letter from this place, when your dutiful son is supposed to be
    "grinding" in No. 30 College House, Cambridge. And the truth is
    that the dutiful son is surprised himself. Here am I, with some
    thirty-five other chaps, making ready for the big football game
    with Yale to-morrow. Here is how it happened:

    Yesterday morning, Brattle--he's our captain--came to my room,
    routed me out of bed, and told me to report to the coaches for
    morning practise. You know, I've been trying for substitute
    right half-back. Ward, the regular, sprained his knee in the
    Dartmouth game, and a few days ago it went lame again. So now
    Sills has Ward's place, and I'm to substitute Sills. And if he
    gets laid out--and maybe I ought to hope he won't--I go in and
    play. What do you think of that? Of course Sills may last the
    entire game; but they say he has a weak back, only he won't own
    up to it, and may have to give up after the first half. Gates
    told me this on the train. Gates is the big center, and weighs
    196. He is very kind, and we chummed all the way from Boston.
    I didn't know any of the fellows, except a few by sight--just
    enough to nod to, you know.

    We left Cambridge in a driving rain, and a big crowd stood out
    in it all, and cheered the eleven, and the captain, and the
    college, and everything they could think of. Every fellow on
    the first and second elevens, and every "sub" was cheered--all
    except Mr. Jimpson. They didn't know of his existence! But
    I didn't feel bad--not very, anyhow. I hope the rest of the
    fellows didn't notice the omission, however. But I made up my
    mind that if I get half a show, I'll make 'em cheer Jimpson,
    too. Just let me get on the field. I feel to-night as though
    I could go through the whole Yale team. Perhaps if I get out
    there, facing a big Yale man, I'll not feel so strong.

    You know, you've always thought I was big. Well, to-day I
    overheard a fellow asking one of the men, "Who is that little
    chap with the red cheeks?" I'm a <DW40> beside most of the
    other fellows. If I play to-morrow, I'll be the lightest man on
    the team, with the exception of Turner, our quarter-back, who
    weighs 158. I beat him by three pounds.

    Such a hubbub as there is in this town to-night! Everybody
    seems crazy with excitement. Of course I haven't the slightest
    idea who is going to win, but to look at our fellows, you'd
    think they would have things their own way. I haven't seen
    any of the Yale players. We practised on their field for an
    hour or so this afternoon, but they didn't show up. There
    was a big crowd of Yale students looking on. Of course every
    fellow of us did his very worst; but the spectators didn't say
    anything--just looked wise.

    Most of the fellows are terribly nervous to-night. They go
    around as though they were looking for something, and would cry
    if they didn't find it soon. And the trainer is the worst of
    all. Brattle, the captain, is fine, though. He isn't any more
    nervous than an alligator, and has been sitting _still all the
    evening_, talking with a lot of the old graduates about the
    game. Once he came in the writing-room, where I'm sitting, and
    asked what I was doing. When I told him, he smiled, and said to
    tell you that if anything happened he'd look after my _remains_
    himself! Maybe he thought I was nervous. But if I am, I'm not
    the only one. Gates is writing to his mother, too, at the other
    table.

    Give my love to Will and Bess. Tell Will to send my old skates
    to me. I shall want them. There is fine skating on Fresh Pond,
    which, by the way, is a lake.

    We're ordered off to bed. I guess some of us won't sleep very
    well. I'm rather excited myself, but I guess I'm tired enough
    to sleep. I'll write again when I get back to college. With
    bushels of love to all,

    Yours affectionately,

    TOM.


III

THE "ARRIVAL"

Jimpson sat on the ground, and watched with breathless interest two
charging, tattered, writhing lines of men. Jimpson felt a good deal
like an outcast, and looked like a North American Indian. Only legs
and face were visible; the rest of Jimpson was enveloped in a big gray
blanket with barbaric red borders. Some two dozen counterparts of
Jimpson sat or lay near by, stretching along the side-line in front
of the Harvard section of the grand stand. Behind them a thousand
enthusiastic mortals were shouting paeans to the goddess of victory,
and, unless that lady was deaf, she must have heard the paeans, however
little she approved of them. The most popular one was sung to a
well-known tune:

[Illustration: Jimpson felt like an outcast, and looked like an Indian.]

    "As we're strolling through Fifth Avenue
     With an independent air,
     The ladies turn and stare,
     The chappies shout, 'Ah, there!'
     And the population cries aloud,
    'Now, aren't they just the swellest crowd,
     The men that broke Old Eli at New Haven!'"

And a mighty response swept across the field from where a bank of blue
rose from the green of the field to the lighter blue of the sky. It was
a martial air, with a prophecy of victory:

    "Shout aloud the battle-cry
       Of Yale, Yale, Yale!
     Wave her standard far and high
       For Yale, Yale, Yale!
     See the foe retreat before us,
     Sons of Eli, shout the chorus,
       Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale, Yale!"

Harvard and Yale were doing battle once more, and twenty thousand
people were looking on. The score-board announced: Harvard, 4; Yale, 0.
Yale's ball. 15 minutes to play.

The story of twenty minutes of the first half is soon told. It had been
Yale's kick-off. Haag had sent the ball down the field to Harvard's
20-yard line, and Van Brandt had gathered it in his long arms, and,
with Meredith ahead, had landed it back in the middle of the field. But
the fourth down gave it to their opponents after a loss of two yards,
and the pigskin went down again to Harvard's territory, coming to a
stop at the white line that marked thirty-five yards. Here Harvard's
new half-back kick had been tried, and the ball went high in air, and
the field went after it; and when the Yale full-back got his hands on
it, he was content with a bare five yards, and it was Yale's ball on
her 40-yard line. Then happened a piece of ill luck for the wearers of
the blue. On the second down, Kurtz fumbled the pass, the ball rolled
toward Yale's goal, and Brattle broke through the opposing left tackle
and fell on it.

And while a thunderous roar of joy floated across the field from the
followers of the Crimson, the teams lined up on Yale's thirty yards.
Twice Meredith tried to go through between center and left guard, and a
bare yard was the reward. Then Van Brandt had run back as for a kick;
the ball was snapped, passed to Sills, Harvard's right half-back, and,
with it safely under his arm, he had skirted the Yale left, and fallen
and wriggled and squirmed across the goal-line for the first touch-down.

Then ensued five minutes of bedlam, and after the victorious seats had
settled into excited complacency, Van Brandt had tried for goal. But
success was too much to hope for, and the two teams trotted back to
the middle of the field, with the score 4 to 0. Then had the sons of
Eli shown of what they were made, and in the next ten minutes the ball
had progressed with fatal steadiness from the center of the field to
the region of the Crimson's twenty yards. And now it was Yale's ball
on the second down, and the silence was so intense that the signal was
heard as plainly by the watchers at the far end of the field as by the
twenty-two stern-faced warriors who faced each other almost under the
shadow of the goal-posts.

"_Twelve, six, twelve, fifty-two!_"

And the backs, led by the guards, hurled their weight against Harvard's
right tackle; and when the ball was found, Baker held it within a few
inches of the 10-yard line.

The cheers of Yale had now grown continuous; section after section
passed the slogan along. The stand across the field looked to Jimpson
like a field of waving blue gentians. On the Harvard seats the uproar
was less intense, and seemed a trifle forced; and the men near by were
breathing heavily, and restively creeping down the line.

Again the lines were formed. Jimpson could see the tall form of the
gallant Gates settle down into a hunchback, toad-like position to
receive the coming onslaught. Billings, the right tackle, was evidently
expecting another experience like the last. He looked nervous, and
Gates turned his head and spoke to him under cover of the first numbers
of the signal.

The guards were back of the line again, and their elbows almost brushed
as they stood between the half-backs. Silence reigned. The referee
skipped nimbly out of the way.

"_Seven, seventeen, eighty-one, thirty!_"

Again the weakening tackle was thrust aside, and although the Crimson
line held better, the ball was three yards nearer home when the
whistle blew, and Billings, somewhat dazed, had to call for a short
delay.

"First down again," muttered a brawny sub at Jimpson's elbow. "Why
doesn't he take Billings out?"

Again the signal came. Again a jumbled mass of arms and legs for a
moment hid the result. Then the men on the stand overlooking the
goal-line arose _en masse_, and a mighty cheer traveled up the field,
growing in volume until Jimpson could not hear his own groans nor the
loud groans of a big sub. Back of the line, and almost equidistant of
the posts, lay the Yale full-back; and the ball was held tightly to
earth between outstretched hands. The prostrate players were slowly
gaining their feet; but Billings and Sills lay where they had fallen.
Then Brattle stepped toward the side line, holding up his hand. With a
leap Jimpson was on his feet. But the big chap beside him had already
pulled off his sweater, and now, tossing it into Jimpson's face, he
sped gleefully toward the captain.

Jimpson sat down again in deep disappointment; and a moment later,
Billings, supported on either side, limped from the gridiron, amid the
cheers of the Harvard supporters. Sills was on his feet again, and the
trainer was talking to him. Jimpson could see the plucky fellow shaking
his head. Then, after a moment of indecision, the trainer left him, the
whistle sounded, the Crimson team lined up back of the line, and Kurtz
was poising the ball for a try at goal. The result was scarcely in
doubt, and the ball sailed cleanly between the posts, a good two feet
above the cross-bar; and the score-board said, "Harvard, 4; Yale, 6";
and there were three minutes more of the half.

Back went the ball to the 55-yard line, and loud arose the cheers of
the triumphant friends of Yale. Gates kicked off, and Warner sent the
ball back again, with a gain of ten yards. Sills caught it and ran, but
was downed well inside Harvard territory, and the half ended with the
ball in Yale's hands. Jimpson seized his blanket, and trotted after the
eleven to the quarters. He found Gates stripping for a rub-down.

"Well, my lad," panted the latter, "could you discern from where you
were just what kind of a cyclone struck us?" But Jimpson was too much
interested for such levity.

"Do you think I'll get in this half, Gates?"

"Can't say. Take a look at Sills, and judge for yourself."

That gentleman was having his lame back rubbed by a trainer, but he
appeared to Jimpson good for at least another quarter of an hour.

It seemed but a moment after they had reached the rooms that the word
of "Time's up, fellows," was passed, and renewed cheering from without
indorsed the fact. But a moment or two still remained, and that moment
belonged to Brattle. He stood on a bench and addressed the hearers very
quietly:

"We're going to kick, this half, fellows. I want every man to get down
the field on the instant, without stopping to hold. I don't think they
can keep us from scoring at least once more; but every man has got to
_work_. When the time comes to put the ball over the line, I expect it
to go over with a rush. Let every man play the best game he knows, but
_play together_. Remember that lack of teamwork has often defeated us.
And now, fellows, three times three for Harvard!"

And what a yell that was! Jimpson went purple in the face, and the head
coach cheered his spectacles off. And then out they all went on a trot,
big Gates doing a coltish handspring in mid-field, to the great delight
of the Crimson's wearers. The college band played; thirty thousand
people said something all together; and then the great quadrangle was
silent, the whistle piped merrily, and the ball soared into air again.

Jimpson took up his position on the side-line once more, and watched
with envious heart the lucky players. For the great, overwhelming
desire of Jimpson's soul was to be out there on the torn turf, doing
great deeds, and being trampled under foot. He watched the redoubtable
Sills as a cat watches a mouse. Every falter of that player brought
fresh hope to Jimpson. He would have liked to rise and make an
impassioned speech in the interests of humanity, protesting against
allowing a man in Sills's condition to remain in the game. Jimpson's
heart revolted at the cruelty of it.

Some such idea as this he had expressed to Gates, that morning; and the
big center had giggled in deep amusement; in fact, he had refused to
recognize the disinterested character of Jimpson's protest.

"Don't you think," Jimpson had pleaded, "that I might ask Brattle to
give me a show in the second half?"

"No, I don't," Gates had answered bluntly. "You're an unknown quantity,
my boy; as the Frenchies say, you haven't 'arrived.' For a player who
hasn't 'arrived' to try to give the captain points would be shocking
bad taste. That's how it is. Sills is a good player. As long as he can
hold his head up, he'll be allowed to play. When he's laid out, Brattle
will give you a show. He can't help himself; you're the only chap that
he can trust in the position. And look here; when that time comes, just
you remember the signals, and _keep your eyes on the ball_. That's all
you'll have to do. Don't take your eyes off the leather, even if the
sky falls!"

Jimpson remembered the conversation, and thought ruefully that it was
easy enough for a fellow who has everything that heart can desire
to spout good advice to chaps on the side-lines. Perhaps if Gates
were in his (Jimpson's) place he'd not be any too patient himself.
The score-board said fifteen minutes to play. Sills still held up his
stubborn head, and Jimpson's chances grew dimmer and dimmer as moments
sped.

Harvard's kicking tactics had netted her long gains time and again, and
twice had she reached Yale's 10-yard line, only to be grimly held and
hurled back. Yale, on the other hand, had only once reached scoring
distance of their opponent's goal, and had been successfully held for
downs. Veterans of the game declared enthusiastically, between bets,
that it