Evening Star Newspaper, October 18, 1931, Page 93

1INGTON, D. y C., 'OCTOBER 18, 1931. 0 ] Foot Ball—BY SAM HELLMAN He suddenly swings toward the Clax- ton stands and leaps the railing. the ball still under his arm. “He's got no more of that than you have hand-knitted sealions.” “Fanny,” I remarks, “that he should have came out for foot ball at all.” “Not so funny,” says Joe. “Hal's working up & thesis on his théories and's out hustling for Q. E. D.'s to go with 'em.” “Hustling for whats?” I exclaims. RL of LA PAZ 077 ing him with an efficient-looking automatic, stood Senor Morales, as inscrutable as ever, ILLON shuddered, lifted his eyes from the figure on the floor, faced Morales. Articu- Jation returned to him. “There's no danger,” he said to him., “We stopped her dead, re- versed, and swung sharply to starboard—that’s all. Hatch suggested disaster and I capped it by appearing as I did. You and Creelman and Dale were the only ones who didn't know. We figured on you or Creelman going straight to the pearl. But this!” Dillon shut his eyes. “Your ruse has succeeded,” the Mexican as- serted positively. ‘“Creelman came straight to the pearl, as you expected. You will find it in the one place you did not search—Capt. Mc- Vee's safe. They were in the affair together. Creelman, no doubt, had undertaken to sell the pearl as soon as it was safe to do so.” Hatch and Dillon cried oué in amazement. “Who are you?” demanded Dillon. “I” said Morales, “am an agent of the Mexican police.” “But, McVee!” interposed Hatch. “Where does he come in?” Morales smiled gravely. “For years McVee has frequented the gaming tables of Central America. You have heard?” Dillon nodded. “Rumors!” he defended. “That’s all.” “Agents of the Gemmill Line have watched Capt. McVee for months, He has lost con- sistenly for years. Lately, he tampered with certain of his company’s moneys and he faced disgrace. The pearl was to recoup his losses and preserve his reputation.” “Up 12 the Amr’”’ VER in the State Department there are two new additions to the “little cabinet,” Assistant Secretaries James G. Rogers and Harvey H. Bundy, both of whom are air fams, while Undersecretary Castle says he has been up but “not so often.” Robe Carl White, silver-haired veteran As- sistant Secretary of Labor, believes in trying everything once, as least, so he has tried flying. And having tried it once, he hopped off again. ,Whether or not he is to join the “air bugs” remains to be seen. The Agriculturists have a strong fellow feel- ing for the soil, no doubt, but it hasn't kept them all on the ground. Assistant Secretary Dunlap has been up, but does not use the plane as a usual medium. (Copyright, 1931.) — “Quod erat demonstrandum,” explains Har- land. “That which was to have been demon- strated has been demonstrated. Now that Davis has got what he wanted from foot ball, he's just as likely as not to turn his attention to pie-making or petting.” “Talking about petting,” says I, “Harold, last Baturday, dropped some crack about a gal in the stand——" “That,” cuts in Joe, “would be Bunny Babson.” - “What is it?” I asks. E. D.?” “Possibly both,” comes back Harland. “Lots of the boys have been trying to demonstrate theories with Bunny——" “I know,” says I, and I do. The Babson baby's a town gal, but no lad’s education at Claxton's regarded as done to a rich brown turn until he's studied Bunny for at least a semester. Her collection of fraternity pins is more complete than King George's stamp col- lection. However, she's a good kid and not above splitting smiles with a mere trainer. No sooner does Harland leave me than I beats it down to her old man’'s drug store to lay in a supply of arnica I've no use for and yards of bandage I'm overstocked with. After stalling around for some time I manages to-get Bunny off in a corner to myself. “Davis,” says I, without preliminaries. Har- old Tecumseh Davis.” “Nice boy,” she comes back. 3 ‘“How steamed up is he over you?” I goes on. “Aren’t you getting pretty far away from your splints and your liniments?” asks Miss Babson. “Not very far,” I returns. “Davis has quit foot ball.” “Quit!” repeats Bunny. started.” “Have you seen him since Saturday?” I asked. “Sure,” she answers. “He comes in here every evening to have a cinder taken out of his eye, but he didn't tell me——" “Then I'm telling you,” I interrupts. “For no reason at all he just ups and turns in his suit. We want him back and you're the gal that's going to bring him back.” “I don't know,” says Bunny dubiously. “Har- old strikes me as the sort of lad you can't even lead to the water, much less make drink if he isn't thirsty. Why are you so hot to have him?” “It's for Red Garnigle’s sake,” I explains. “There's a crowd that wants to put the skids under him—and they will if he doesn't pro- duce a winner this year. Without Davis he hasn't a chance. You're for Red, aren’t you?” “From deuce to ace,” she returns; “but I don't see how I'm going to—" “Be yourself!” I cuts in. “With that eyes and them smile you could coax pineapples off & chestnut tree, You're not losing your cunning, are you?” “You'll hear from my attorneys about that,” comes back Miss Babson. “Maybe if I catch Harold in the right tempo——" “Right tempo, eh?” I interjects. “Has Davis been feeding you from that dish, too?” “From platters,” says she. “Well, is it a go? Are you ready to die for dear old Claxton?” “I don't know that I'd go quite that far,” says Bunny; “but I'm willing to take on & severe headache when any of Harold's com- petitors are calling.” “Geod girl,” I applauds. “A crush or a Q. “Why, he just N the walk to my flop house I runs into Garnigle. He's striding along the road with a worried look on his pan. “Where are you heading for?” I asks. “The Beta house,” he snaps savagelv. “I'm going to have a talk with young Davis.” “Don't,” says I. And I tells him of the fire I've lighted under Harold Tecumseh. “Not that boy,~’ declares Red. “I know Bunny's a quick trick in any kind of a game, but——"". “Let her try, anyhow,” I suggests. We've no game carded for the following' Sat- urday, but after practice on Tuesday Davis dri into the gym as Garnigle’s getting into his ' street clothes. “§'ve decided to help you out against Ben- so0i1,” he announces. “Oh, have you?” scowls Red. “However, I don't propose to appcar on the field in foot ball togs.” “No?” growls Garnigle. “What do you pro- prse to wear—a suit of chainmail or merely & look of quiet resignation.” “Running trunks, probably,” returns Davis. “There's no rule requiring me to load myself down with pads and pincushions, is there?” “Only the rule of three,” I horns in. “Ydour- self, vour life and your limbs. You might as well take off your skin and dance around in your bones g “Tempo,” cuts in Harold, “will leave me un- tcuched.” And he marches himself out of the gym. “I'm going to quit cozching,” snorts Red, disgustedly, “and get myself a job in a nut factory before that baby sends me there as an inmate. I'll not play him.” “Yes you will,” says I. “Davis rhay be slightly skiddy under the skull, but he’ll make you the ‘ most talked-of ccach in America if my guesser hasn't run out of gas. You'll get the credit for him——" “If you can call it credit,” grumbles Gar- nigie. “What'll happen to me if I send him out there untrzined znd unprotected—and he leaves most of his tibias and a few of his col- lar bones scattered around the field?” “That's a chance,” I admits, “but if Yale couldn't lay a finger on him, I don't think it's in the cards and spades for Benson or Burn- side to take the boy apart.” At the very first opportunity, I beats it down to Babson's drug dive to give the little girl a great big hand. “Nice billiards,” says I. ointment?” “None at all,” returns Bunny. “I've barely spoken a word to him since I saw you last.” “Oh!” I exclaims. “Then you're not respon- sible for Harold being back in the f<ld?” “Oh, yes I am,” she smiles. “Only I didn't work the moonlight and shady lane technique with him. Hal's not the type.” “What did you do?” I asks. “Sprung a gush over Grimes,” replies Bunny, “and the other boys in the backfield—the theme song being ‘IT you're not running the ball for Claxton, well, you needn't come around.” It was pretty obvious stuff, but Har- old burned.” “O. K.,” says I. “But now that we've got him again, you'd better return to the soft- soap system.” “Back to your arnica,” scoffs Miss Babson, “and leave the higher flights of finesse with me. I'll guarantee to keep Harold in a con- stant state of rigor mortis for dear old Clax- ton. May I observe that Mr. Davis is rather knee deep in his devotion to me?” “You may,” I grants, “but you'd better watch your step.” Harold's appearance Saturday in shorts creates a lot of buzz-buzz, but not a protest. As a matter of fact he shows for only about half a minute, but that's plenty plus. With a tie score in the third quarter Davis takes the ball in the center of the field and squirms to a touchdown. No necessity arises for using him in the game again. Against Cloverdale the following week, he rips off enough 30, 40 and 55 yard runs to put a 30-26 score on the ice for us. A few hands touch and slide off of him, but in neither set- to is he thrown or as much as scratched. When his tempo tells him to, he sits, but with enough weaving and wriggling left to escape the main force of the momentum boys. “Not a tibia or a collarbone busted yet,” I remarks to Red. “Not yet,” comes back Garnigle, “but this can't go on forever.” “It doesn’t have to go on forever,” I points out shrewdly. “The season ends nett Satur- day. He ought to be good for one more game, oughtn’t he?” “I hope s0,” says the coach, “but I hear Burnside's cooking up a mess of molasses for Davis that they're betting’ll slow him down.” “Lét ’em cook and let 'em bet,” I returns. “Judging Harold on the basis of past perform- ances isn't going to do 'em any good. The kid’s tempo changes with conditions. My only :::ry is that Bunny might lose interest in » “Did it take much HE Babson baby plays the game, however. I see her often with Harold. A couple of days before the battle with Burnside, I drops into the drug store to check up on the situation. I finds Bunny alone and not looking so happy. “I wish the season was over,” she complains. “What's the matter?” I inquires. “Too much tempo?” “Much too much,” says Miss Babson. “Harold's running me into a wreck with his sappy stuff about time and rhythm and——" “Always talking about ’'em, eh?” I remarks. “And acting 'em,” returns Bunny. “He’ll be out walking with me and all of a sudden stop and decide that things are just rhythmically right to do this or that. Last night he took me to a concert in the stadium and right in the middle of the ‘Miserere” announced that the situation's just set for a kiss.” “Did you?” I asks. “I'm dying for dear old Claxton, aren't I?” comes back Miss Babson. “Just a few more days, girlie,” says I sooth- ingly. “Don’t you like him, at all?” “Oh, I suppose he’s not so bad,” replies Bunny, “but there are others I like a lot better.” “Dan Grimes, for instance?” says L “Dan Grimes, for instance,” says she. “You can tip him to that Sunday,” I tells her, “but for Red's sake and the alma matcr, you play our horse until then. You can hold out through Saturday, can't you?” “I suppose s0,” sighs Bunny, “‘unless Harold learns this evening that everything's rhyth- mically right to lie down on the railroad tracks or in front of a buzz-saw.” “In that event, I allows generously, “you may refuse.” . “The breaks!” exclaims Miss Babson. “The breaks at last!™” 8 Just before game time Saturday Davis ape pears—and I breathes a sigh of relief. Bunny apparently has done her stuff to the end. “Now, listen,” says Red. “Burnside’s going to be laying for you and I want you to be especially cagey. And don't underestimate them. Bewson and Cloverdale aren’t in the same class.” “Everything’s in the same class,” comes back Harold. “I don’t care how good Burnside is. It's just a matter of adjusting the timing.” “All right,” shrugs Garnigle, “but I'd feel a lot better if you put on some padding today.” “No danger,” asserts Davis. And that's them. As I marches onto the field with the team, I pipes Bunny Babson in the Ciaxton section. Harold spots her too, and slips her a wave as he moves over to the side< lines with the rest of the substitutes and second= string men. In the first few minutes of play it's in the cards that Burnside’s got it over us like a circus top. On the kick-off they run the pigskin back some 35 yards and then recl off another 30 with shots off-tackle, skirts of the ends and hammers at center. Claxton finally holds, but it takes everything we've got to prevent a score in the first quarter. In the second stanza, however, Burnside pushes over seven points and I looks to see Harold pulled into the game; but Garnigle - halds his fire until the session’s about shots Then with the ball on our own 40-yard line, he gives Davis the office. The kid shucks his bathrobe and comes a-running. ‘There are no signals, no delay. The pill's passed to Harold, but this time he doesn’t go back as he had in the other games. Instead, he steers directly for the enemy’s right end, stops abruptly, takes a few dance steps tosevade a pair of up-and-coming Burnsides, and darts through a hole at tackle big enough to ac- commodate a fleet of caterpillar tractors—and ° Harold's away. He's pretty fast in shorts, but not quite fast enough. He’s compelled to stop and shift stride a couple of times to evade tacklers and on Burnside's 10-yard line he gives up and flops. Then happens what Red had feared. Despite the fact that the ball's grounded and the whistle’s sounded, a half dozen of the pursuing crew jump on the reclining figure. It looks like murder, but when the kid's pulled free he’s got all his legs and arms. “Hurt?” asks Garnigle anxiously, as I lead Davis to the sidelines. “No,” he grins. “Just dirty. I switches their rhythm and had them pounding each ether before I was underfoot long.” “Take a rest,” says Red. some more."” On two off-tackle thrusts and a kick we tie the score just as the quarter's ended and Clax- ton has the hurrah that's been denied ‘em these many years. But the hurrah is not for Jong. At the opening of the second half one of our bright young men cuts loose with a fumble and the next thing I knows Burnside's squatting on our 15-yard line and rarin’ to go. “We’'ll need you ‘On the very next play a forward's caught in back of the goal posts and once again we're holding the sikly end of the score, 13-7. TH.E rest of the quarter and a large pdrt of the fourth is a kicking affair, with little progress by either side. At length Garnigle thinks he sees an opportunity for Harold. We're at about the center of the field when Davis replaces Delaney, amidst the wildest racket from the rooters I've heard in my 10 years at Claxton. Harold receives the pass perfectly, runs back some yards and circles right, almost to the side= line. Follows a quick stop and a dizzy shift that baffles the enemy onslaught. I'm expecting the kid to cut in or retreat for a fresh start, but he does neither. Instead, he suddenly swings toward the Claxton stands and leaps the railing, the ball still under his arm. My next flash is of Davis leaning over Bunny Bab- son. With Red raging beside me, I makes a rush for the bleachers. Just as we arrives, Harold drops the pigskin in Bunny's lap, gesticulates wildly and dashes up the aisle toward ome of the exits. “What's the matter?” I asks the Babson frill, - who’s almost in a collapse. “I don’t know,” she mumbles. “He said—he said this was the exact moment to ask me something important——" “Was it?” I comes back dully. “No, it wasn’t,” returns Bunny. “I wouldn’t have had him——" “What's up?” demands Garnigle, all a puzale. “Nothing,” says I dryly, “except that Harold thought this was the proper time and place to propose marriage to——" . “What a spot!” gasps Red. ‘“Couldn’t you have said ‘yes’ just——" “Not very well,” replies Miss Babson, all ablush. “I eloped with Dan Grim>s yesterday afternoon.” “All the bunk,” snarls Garnigle. “The truth is, Davis saw he was going to be thrown for a loss and he took the yellow way out.” “Maybe,” says I, “but, in any event, some- body did trump his tempo.” “It was Dan,” declares Bunny. “Doh't v“g. want this foot ball?” “No!” barks Red, as the screech of the whistie comes to our ears. “Keep it for a wedding present!” . (Copyright, 1031.)