Up the Street/Chapter 5

In Cambridge, in the Commonweath [sic] of Massachusetts, on the evening of the fifth of November, a little group of men sat at the operating table of the Varsity Club's consulting room. Upon their faces sat deeply graven consternation and doubt. At the eastern window an aggressive man of middle age stood peering out at the scattered lights of Linden Street, and the shadowy façade of the Union. Some one at the table stirred restlessly, and at the sound the man near the window faced sharply about.

"If it weren't for the line," he said savagely, "they'd have beaten us a hundred to nothing! What good is a defense like a brick wall if there isn't a man in the backfield who doesn't shut his eyes when he hits the line? Two lickings in succession—and we rushed the ball less than fifty yards altogether! Unless something's done about it now, we've as much chance at New Haven as a snowball will have by and by. If we couldn't beat 'em when we had Bull Blanding to take the ball, what chance have we got with that dainty, delicate bunch of backs this year? What? Well—what's the answer?"

The older coaches looked at each other, saying nothing. It had all been said after the last two games. The youngest coach smiled seriously, and kept counsel.

"If we could only get some pep into 'em!" jawed the aggressive man. "Come, who's got an idea? I'm dry."

"Wire Blanding," said the youngest coach.

"I wrote him two weeks ago—he said he's too busy."

"Wire him."

"He won't come. He's the only man I know who could fill the bill, but he wouldn't come last year, and he won't come now. He's working on some harebrained literary rot he thinks is important. Piffle!"

"He'll come," contradicted the youngest coach. "He'll come if you get him right."

"I'll be interested to know," said the head coach stiffly, "why he'll come for you if he won't for me."

"Write out a telegram," suggested the junior, "and then I'll tell you."

The head coach stared aggressively for a moment.

"Oh, all right," he said shortly, and took to scratching with a fountain pen. The younger man also wrote.

"Here," said the head coach. "What's the matter with this?

{{fine block|"{{sc|Hector Blanding}}, Olympus, Ohio: We greatly need you to assist in coaching the backs. Loyalty to the university demands your presence, if possible. {{sc|W. H. Prince.}}"

"That's pretty punk, Prince! This is what we'll send. Listen:

{{fine block|"Harvard 0, Amherst 10. Backfield averages 151 pounds, and gained 24 yards by rushing. Odds now 3 to 1 on Yale. When do you arrive?}}

"That," said its author complacently, "isn't so blamed dignified, but it'll bring Blanding in two jumps."

"Somebody ring for a boy," commanded Prince. "Well, then, if we have Hector Blanding to coach the backs{{bar|2}}"