Evening Star Newspaper, October 18, 1931, Page 92

ITS ALL IN. THE TIM i Mr. Hellman Has Long Been One of America’s Favorite &AW Writers of Short Stories, and T'hisParticular YarnIsin His Best Vein. Hlustrated by R. 1. Chambers ED GARNIGLE sighing in the rain is no novelty to me. With each recurring Fall, Claxton’s foot ball coach views the offing with all the shining optimism of a blonde whose bullish boy friend’s been caught in a bear market. “We haven't a chance this year,” grumbles Red, when I meets up with him in the gym. “Why pick on this year?” I comes back. “I don’t recall that we came home with the bacon last year, either.” “We didn't,” admits Garnigle, “but this anno Domini’s going down in the records as the year of the big washout. I've just been riding herd on the current bunch of beef and if there's a winning combination in the drove, there're hot- dog stands on uninhabited islands.” “It's all in the coaching,” I observes, for the ride. “Coaching!” snorts Red. “There isn't enough coaching in Cochin China to make anything of the rah-rah riffraff I've had wished on me this trip. If I only had one guy to build around—-" “Dry your eyes and check your sobs,” cuts in a drawling voice, and I turns to see a tall, spindly lad who wouldn't weight a hundred and twenty pounds with a hydraulic dredge in each pocket. “I am the answer to your ‘if’,” he an- nounces. “Oh, yeh?” growls Garnigle. “And who may you be, freshman?” “The name’s Davis,” says he. ‘“Harold Tecumseh Davis—and it just happens I'm a senior.” “Senior, ¢h?"” remarks Red. “What's delayed you?” “Lack of motive,” comes back Davis. “But T've got one now. There's a hole in the front of my sweater that a big C will just about cover. What's the difference? You need me and it's about time that I died for dear old Claxton.” “Ever play any foot ball?” asks Garnigle. “Never,” returns Harold, “but I'm a very ob- serving young man.” “Doubtless,” shrugs the coach, “but I'm in the market for participants, not observers. You're much too light——" “I expected that from you,” interrupts Davis. “Weight's the only table of measures you know. We might have won a few games in the last couple of years if you'd taken the scales off your eyes and looked around for something be- sides pounds. Heft isn't the secret of winning foot ball—nor is speed.” “Oh, no?” says Red. “What is?” “Tempo,” answers Harold. “Come again,” suggests Garnigle. “That one took a bad bounce.” “Tempo,” repeats Davis. “Rhythm-—timing. With proper tempo a one-legged paperhanger could reel off more yards in five minutes than all the suet behind your line could buck in an afternoon.” “And you're the guy with the proper tempo?” inquires Red. “I am the very guy,” declares Harold Tecumseh. “You'll pardon me,” says Garnigle, “but if you've never played foot ball, what do you know of its tempo?” “I've never played the bass viol or the flage- olet,” comes back Davis, “but I can tell when they're out of tune. I'm a student of rhythm and my timing is almost instinctive. Might I also repeat that I'm a very observing young man?” “You might,” says Red, “but might I also Trepeat that you're full of succotash? Of course, timing’s important, but without heft and speed and interference you wouldn't get from where you are to where you are. They'd tear a tissue- weight like you apart. However, it’s your throat. If you want to cut it, come out for scrimmage tomorrow.” “Is that necessary?” asks Davis. “I have no liking whatever for the rough features of foot ball. Besides, I'm going to be too precious to Yyou to risk in practice brawls.” “Oh, yeh?” says Garnigle. “You figuring on Bubstituting tempo for team-work, too?” “‘Practically,” answers Davis. “I'll co-operate with only one player—the man who passes me the ball.” “Better return to your rhythm,” advises the chief, “and come back here when you're good enough to eliminate him too.” “On second thought,” decided Harold, “I guess I'll show up for practive tomorrow. After all, You're the coach——" “Disregard that,” cuts in Garnigle. “Until tomorrow, then,” says Davis, with an firy wave, and ambles out of the gym. “There’s a find for you,” I observes to Red. “So's a fly in your pie,” grunts Garnigle. ¥Well, at any rate, my backfield is all set. Ill use Davis at one half, Prexy Case’s invalid aunt at the other and a couple of girl scouts at full.” “The kid,” I remarks, “may have something, at that. Of course, he’s thinner than the ham in a drug store sandwich, but even that might be an asset. He could crowd through a crack that'd defeat a cockroach. If the boy really has a natural sense of timing, you might make something of him. The chances are, however, that he was just taking you for a sleigh-ride apd von't show up again.” ] “I hope he does,” declares Garnigle grimly. “I'd like to see him taken apart, just to find out what makes him tick.” “It's the tempo, feller,” says I. AROLD TECUMSEH appears on the foot ball field bright and carly the following afternoon. In playing togs he looks even slimmer and taller than he did in mufti, the pants barely reaching to his knees. Garnigle welcomes him with malignant amiability. “Take a few leaps at that,” says he, indicating the dummy swinging between two uprights. “What for?” comes back Davis. “I don't expect to do any tackling.” “You don’t, eh?” glowers the coach. “I expect to do nothing but run with the ball when, as and if issued to me.” “Just a tower of strength on the defense” sneers Red. “All right,” he adds, with a wink at me. “I'll let you run with the ball after a bit.” For the next hour or so, Garnigle pays no attention whatever to Davis, who remains by me criticizing the tempo of his teammates. It is about the poorest squad I'd scen at Claxton in my 10 years there as trainer. Along about five bells, Garnigle divides the boys into a couple Qf scrub elevens and motions Harold to a spot at half. “Take it and run,” said Red, instructing the quarter-back to pass the skin of the swine to Davis. The kid fumbles around with the toss, but finally manages to keep the ball in his lunch- hooks. With it tucked under his arm, he runs back 20 yards or thereabouts, and then swings toward the left end. By this time the pack's all about him, and his interference is nix, but they don’t down Davis. He weaves and shifts and wiggles, makes sudden stops, steps aside to let tacklers hurtle past him by inches, and without the use of a straight arm manages to get out in the clear. Three or four lads are on his heels, one of 'em practically on his tail. Just as the nearest pursuer’s about to heave himself at the runner, Harold halts and sits down. “What's the idea?” yelps Garnigle. “I knew he was going to get me,” returns Davis calmly. “My tempo told me. Why should I get myself messed up?” “Nice 40-yard run, boy!” says I. “Disgustingly simple,” comes back Harold, “and it'd have been a great deal simpler if the interference hadn't got in my way. Can't you arrange to keep it at home when I'm run- ning?” “Sure,” scowls Red. “I'll send it up to Maine. Get back into the line-up.” “Not bad, eh?” I remarks to Red. “Bologny,” says he. “Running through that fleld’s like pouring water through a sieve. There isn't anybody out there who could stop payment on a check.” “Bologny to you,” says I. “Davis has the stuff and you know it! Did you notice those sudden stops and sidesteps? They'd throw an All-American team off its stride.™ Why don't you try him again?” A few minutes later Garnigle does. This time Harold seeps and sways through the hunt 60 yards to a touchdown. Thirty, 40 and 50 vard runs follow in succeeding plays. It's uncanny the way that baby curves himself away from tacklers, making ‘em miss by young hair- breadths. In no instance is he thrown, picking his own spots for sit-downs. “It looks,” says I, “as if the hole in Harold's sweater is going to be covered with a big C. Has he got something besides an uncle in the hay and feed business?” “He has,” admits Red, “but whether he will have against the Class A swifties on the schedule is a cow in another pasture.” “Davis’ll be just as effective in any com- pany, I predicts. It's just as easy to step out of the way of a locomotive as an ox cart when you sense it coming.” “Yes,” comes back Garnigle, “but not when the locomotives are coming from every direc- tion as they will be in the regular games. At best, we can only use the kid in pinches.” “That’s the only time you'll want to use him,” says I. “You'd be a sucker to send a fragile pitcher like Harold to the well very often. A couple of minutes per game ought to be plenty.” Our opening set-to of the season is with Yale—one of their conditioning contests which in the past has enabled Eli to start off its schedule with 30 or 40 points on the plus side of the fence. This year, however, Yale puts up so ragged an effort against our ragged de- fense that one touchdown’s the best they can collect in the first half. No use is made of Davis’ services. “If you're not going to play me,” says he to Red in the rest period, “I'll get dressed and g0 up in the stands. There’s a girl up there who'd rather have me by HNer side than on the side lines.” “I'll call you when I want you,” barks Garni- gle. “Better make it soon,” suggests Harold. OT until late in the fourth quarter is Davis wigwagged into the breach. The score’s still 6 against us and we're back on our own 20-yard chalk line when"the kid takes Delaney’s place at left half. Almost immediately the ball's snapped to Harold and he struts his stuff. He funs back and then begins a wide circle of the enemy’s right end. A couple of Elihus fling themselves at Davis, but he hends away from one and then the other with ridiculous ease and continues on the arc. Two or three more would-be tacklers are made to look foolish with hip-weaves and side-steps, and Harold's off on his own down the field. He's not par- ticularly hot in the hoofs and before long he’s feeling the warm breath of the pursuers on the back of his neck. On Yale's 5-yard line the boy calls it a run and squats in the dust. “Blast it all,” snarls Red, “he could have made it!” “His tempo,” says I, “probably told him he couldn’t. Be content with your yardage, my lad. If your journeymen ca1't smash the pill over now in four downs they ought to quit foot ball and go in for making Irish lace.” On three plays the score’s pushed across, Harold Tecumseh taking no part at all in the proceedings. He merely idles in the back- field, a casual and bored observer. The touch- down accomplished, Garnigle makes a motion of sorts to Harland, the team’s captain, and he, in turn, whispers something to Davis- and others. Whereupon, Harold steps back from the scrimmage line. “Judas!” I yelps to the coach. *“You going to let him try for the goal?” “Uh-huh,” replies Red. The ball's passed to Harland, who makes as if to ground it for a place to kick, but he doesn’t. Instead, he heaves the oval to Davis, - who takes it on the lam. Yale, all set for a boot, is not in a perfect state of preparedness for the runner. It probably wouldn't have done ‘em much good even if they had been. Harold's too snaky and slippery for anything to stop. He crosses the pay-off point without a hand having been laid on him and the game’s in the bag, 7—6. “Does that get me my C?” inquires Davis. “It ought to get you one for your sweater and every shirt you and your family own,” says I. “Sure, you'll get a C,” cut in Garnigle. “In that case,” remarks Harold, “I guess I'll turn in my suit.” “You mean—quit?” gasps Red. “Just that,” returns Davis. “I've come to the conclusion that foot ball's a.better game to watch than to be in.” “I thought,” growls Garnigle, “you declared yourself as ready to die for dear old Claxton.” “I am,” comes back Harold, “but I prefer to do it in a quadratic-equation test.” “Can the kidding,” says I. “We haven't & team without you.” “No; I'm through. I've made my point; why press it? Perhaps you'll pay more attention to tempo and less to tonnage hereafter.” And he strolls away. “What's the matter with that fathead?”, grunts Red. “Does he want to be begged?” “I don't know,” says I, “but if he does you'd better throw your pride down the portcullis and dissolve in tears at his feet. Harold's the find of this or any other century.” “He’s a bet, all right,” agrees Garnigle. “But I'm coaching, not coaxing. Anyhow, how long do you think he’ll last, now that the boys are hep to him? Those rowdies over at Benson or Cloverdale’d break a leg for him——" “They would if they could,” I interrupts, “but one of the first essentials in breaking a leg is to get a grip on said leg, and Harold's not going to let 'em get said grip.” “Probably not, now,” grumbles Red, “unless they climb into the grandstand after him!” Y personal opinion’s been that Davis'd change his mind over Sunday with the help of a little coaxing, but I'm all wet. Noth- ing is seen of him in the gym or on the practice field for days. Finally, I take his case up with Joe Harland, who infests the same frat house as Harold. “He's around,” says Joe, “but there’s no use arguing with him.” “Have you tried?” I asks. “I have,” returns Harland, “but it's easier to move Pike's Peak than budge that baby.” THE SUNDAY STAR, W “Did he seriously want a C?” I inquires, wil a vague hope in mind of having it held unless——" “Nothing interests him but tempo rhythm. According to Hal, everybody's eati out of step, sleeping out of tune and runni around without rhythm.” “Where,” I demands, “is his college spirit?” BLACK PE Continued frem Eighth Page pounding ascended from the dark regions of th vessel's engines and shudder upon shudde racked her ancient plates. A second violent list to starboard spun theni across the inclined floor. Panic brushed thi group. Heavy feet trod the approach to the saloo Dillon, the mate, appeared in the doorway. lips were bloodless. An automatic pistol hung from his hand. 7 “There’s no immediate danger!” he sald, quietly. “We have half an hour! Plenty of boats! Get your wraps and dress warmly!” Not until every other man was out of e saloon did Hatch rush on deck. Glancing fore and aft he beheld a bulky figure, scarcely dis cernible in the fog, racing towards the bridge, A second figure emerged from a black pool of shadow and tore after the first. But suddenly, to his horror, the stillness spli open, a revolver shot reverberating in his ear: He stopped dead; his thin face whitened. “Lord!” he sobbed. “Somebody shot! Bob! Then he tore on again. And so, in & moment, Ben Hatch came to the threshold of Captain McVee's cabin. H body stiffened; his eyes dilated in horror. | On the floor lay the master, a tiny stream of] red curling from his mouth. Beside him knelt Dillon, transfixed by the mask-like face be neath him. A revolver lay on the floor. Against a wall erouched Creelman, livid with terror, and wringing his fleshy hands. Cover Offictal I ashing Continued jrom Third Page likes to do his own piloting, too, although some- times Capt. Ira Eaker handles the stick for him. Mr. Davison uses a speedy little single motor pursuit plane often., F. H. Payne, As- sistant Secretary of War for Procurement and Supply, does much of his traveling by the air Toute, using whatever plane comes handy. ‘While the Treasury head keeps his feet firmly on the ground, his aides are decidedly air-_ minded—that is, some of them are. Assistant Secretary Frank K. Heath, for instance, is a veteran fan. Some four or five years ago he had the first taste of flying when he crossed the English Channel far above the choppy waters. Since that time he has grown more and more into the habit of calling upon the airplane to transport him hither and yon. ]