Short Stories for English Courses

V >> Various (Rosa M. R. Mikels ed.) >> Short Stories for English Courses

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"Nervous. Hasn't steadied down yet," exclaimed a reporter behind
Henry Seeley. "But he can't afford to give Princeton any more
chances like that. Her ends are faster than chain lightning."

The father groaned and wiped the sweat from his eyes. If the team
were afraid of this untried full-back, such a beginning would not
give them confidence. Then the two lines locked and heaved in the
first scrimmage, and a stocky Yale half-back was pulled down in
his tracks. Again the headlong Princeton defence held firm and the
Yale captain gasped, "Second down and three yards to gain." The
Yale interferers sped to circle one end of the line, but they were
spilled this way and that and the runner went down a yard short of
the needed distance.

The Yale full-back dropped back to punt. Far and true the ball
soared into the Princeton field, and the lithe Freshman had
somewhat redeemed himself. But now, for their own part, the sons
of Old Nassau found themselves unable to make decisive gains
against the Yale defence. Greek met Greek in these early clashes,
and both teams were forced to punt again and again. Trick-plays
were spoiled by alert end-rushers for the blue or the orange and
black, fiercely launched assaults at centre were torn asunder, and
the longer the contest raged up and down the field the more
clearly it was perceived that these ancient rivals were rarely
well matched in point of strength and strategy.

The Yale coaches were dismayed at this turn of events. They had
hoped to see the ball carried toward the Princeton goal by means
of shrewdly devised teamwork, instead of which the burden of the
game was shifted to one man, the weakest link in the chain, the
Freshman at full-back. He was punting with splendid distance,
getting the ball away when it seemed as if he must be overwhelmed
by the hurtling Tigers. Once or twice, however, a hesitant
nervousness almost wrought quick disaster, and the Yale partisans
watched him with tormenting apprehension.

The first half of the game was fought into the last few minutes of
play and neither eleven had been able to score. Then luck and
skill combined to force the struggle far down into Yale territory.
Only ten yards more of trampled turf to gain and Princeton would
cross the last white line. The indomitable spirit which had placed
upon the escutcheon of Yale football the figure of a bulldog
rampant, rallied to meet this crisis, and the hard-pressed line
held staunch and won possession of the ball on downs. Back to the
very shadow of his own goal-posts the Yale full-back ran to punt
the ball out of the danger zone. It shot fairly into his grasp
from a faultless pass, but his fingers juggled the slippery
leather as if it were bewitched. For a frantic, awful instant he
fumbled with the ball and wildly dived after it as it caromed off
to one side, bounded crazily, and rolled beyond his reach.

The Princeton quarter-back had darted through the line like a
bullet. Without slackening speed or veering from his course, he
scooped up the ball as he fled toward the Yale goal-line. It was
done and over within a twinkling, and while the Yale team
stampeded helplessly in his wake the devastating hero was circling
behind the goal-posts where he flopped to earth, the precious ball
apparently embedded in his stomach. It was a Princeton touchdown
fairly won, but made possible by the tragic blunder of one Yale
man. While ten thousand Princeton throats were barking their
jubilation, as many more loyal friends of Yale sat sad-eyed and
sullen and glowered their unspeakable displeasure at the slim
figure of the full-back as he limped into line to face the try for
goal.

The goal was not scored, however, and the fateful tally stood five
to nothing when the first half ended, with the blue banners
drooping disconsolate.

Henry Seeley pulled his slouch hat over his eyes and sat with
hunched shoulders staring at the Yale team as it left the field
for the intermission. He had forgotten about his story of the
game. The old spectre of failure obsessed him. It was already
haunting the pathway of his boy. Was he also to be beaten by one
colossal blunder? Henry Seeley felt that Ernest's whole career
hung upon his behavior in the second half. How would the lad "take
his medicine"? Would it break his heart or rouse him to fight more
valiantly? As if the father had been thinking aloud, the sporting
editor at his side observed:

"He may win the game yet. I like the looks of that boy. But he did
make a hideous mess of it, didn't he? I hope he hasn't got a
streak of yellow in him."

Henry Seeley turned on his neighbor with a savage scowl and could
not hold back the quivering retort:

"He belongs to me, I want you to understand, and we'll say nothing
about yellow streaks until he has a chance to make good next
half."

"Whew-w-w, why did you hold it out on me, old man?" gasped the
sporting editor. "No wonder you kicked me black and blue without
knowing it. I hope he is a chip of the old block. I saw you play
here in your last game."

Seeley grunted something and resumed staring at the field. He was
thinking of the present moment in the training quarters, of the
muddy, weary players sprawled around the head coach, of his wise,
bitter, stinging rebukes and admonitions. Perhaps he would take
Ernest out of the game. But Seeley was confident that the coaches
would give the boy a chance to redeem himself if they believed his
heart was in the right place. Presently the two teams trotted on
the field, not as nimbly as at their first appearance, but with
dogged resolution in their demeanor. Henry Seeley saw his son
glance up at the "cheering sections," as if wondering whether
their welcome was meant to include him. One cheer, at least, was
intended to greet him, for Henry Seeley stood on his chair, waved
his hat, and thundered:

"'Rah, 'rah, 'rah, for Yale, my boy. Eat 'em alive as your daddy
used to do."

The men from Princeton had no intention of being devoured in this
summary fashion. They resumed their tireless, whirlwind attack
like giants refreshed, and so harried their Yale foemen that they
were forced to their utmost to ward off another touchdown. This
incessant battering dulled the edges of their offensive tactics,
and they seemed unable to set in motion a consistent series of
advances. But the joy of Princeton was tempered by the knowledge
that this, her dearest enemy, was not beaten until the last play
had been signalled.

And somehow the Yale machine of muscle, brains, and power began to
find itself when the afternoon shadows were slanting athwart the
arena. With the ball on Princeton's forty-yard line the chosen
sons of Eli began a heroic advance down the field. It was as if
some missing cog had been supplied. "Straight old-fashioned
football" it was, eleven minds and bodies working as one and
animated by a desperate resolve, which carried the Yale team along
for down after down into the heart of Princeton's ground.

Perhaps because he was fresher than the other backs, perhaps
because the captain knew his man, the ball was given to the Yale
full-back for one swift and battering assault after another. His
slim figure pelted at the rush-line, was overwhelmed in an
avalanche of striped arms and legs, but somehow twisted, wriggled,
dragged itself ahead as if there was no stopping him. The
multitude comprehended that this despised and disgraced Freshman
was working out his own salvation along with that of his comrades.
Once, when the scrimmage was untangled, he was dragged from
beneath a heap of players, unable to regain his feet. He lay on
the grass a huddled heap, blood smearing his forehead. A surgeon
and the trainer doused and bandaged him, and presently he
staggered to his feet and hobbled to his station, rubbing his
hands across his eyes as if dazed.

When, at length, the stubbornly retreating Princeton line had been
driven deep down into their end of the field, they, too, showed
that they could hold fast in the last extremity. The Yale attack
crumpled against them as if it had struck a stone wall. Young
Seeley seemed to be so crippled and exhausted that he had been
given a respite from the interlocked, hammering onslaught, but at
the third down the panting quarter-back croaked out his signal.
His comrades managed to rip a semblance of an opening for him, he
plunged through, popped clear of the line, fell to his knees,
recovered his footing by a miracle of agility, and lunged onward,
to be brought down within five yards of the coveted goal-posts.

He had won the right to make the last momentous charge. Swaying in
his tracks, the full-back awaited the summons. Then he dived in
behind the interference for a circuit of the right end. Two
Princeton men broke through as if they had been shot out of
mortars, but the Yale full-back had turned and was ploughing
straight ahead. Pulled down, dragging the tackler who clung to his
waist, he floundered to earth with most of the Princeton team
piled above him. But the ball lay beyond the fateful chalk-line,
the Yale touchdown was won, and the game was tied.

The captain clapped Seeley on the shoulder, nodded at the ball,
and the full-back limped on to the field to kick the goal or lose
a victory. There were no more signs of nervousness in his bearing.
With grave deliberation he stood waiting for the ball to be placed
in front of the goal-posts. The sun had dropped behind the lofty
grand-stands. The field lay in a kind of wintry twilight. Thirty
thousand men and women gazed in tensest silence at the mud-
stained, battered youth who had become the crowning issue of this
poignant moment. Up in the press-box a thick-set, grayish man dug
his fists in his eyes and could not bear to look at the lonely,
reliant figure down yonder on the quiet field. The father found
courage to take his hands from his face only when a mighty roar of
joy boomed along the Yale side of the amphitheatre, and he saw the
ball drop in a long arc behind the goal-posts. The kick had won
the game for Yale.

Once clear of the crowds, Henry Seeley hurried toward the training
quarters. His head was up, his shoulders squared, and he walked
with the free stride of an athlete. Mr. Richard Giddings danced
madly across to him:

"Afraid to see him play were you, you silly old fool? He is a chip
of the old block. He didn't know when he was licked. Wow, wow,
wow, blood will tell! Come along with us, Harry."

"I must shake hands with the youngster, Dick. Glad I changed my
mind and came to see him do it."

"All right, see you at Mory's to-night. Tell the boy we're all
proud of him."

Seeley resumed his course, saying over and over again, as if he
loved the sound of the words, "chip of the old block," "blood will
tell."

This verdict was like the ringing call of bugles. It made him feel
young, hopeful, resolute, that life were worth having for the sake
of its strife. One thing at least was certain. His son could "take
his punishment" and wrest victory from disaster, and he deserved
something better than a coward and a quitter for a father.

The full-back was sitting on a bench when the elder Seeley entered
the crowded, steaming room of the training house. The surgeon had
removed the muddy, blood-stained bandage from around his tousled
head and was cleansing an ugly, ragged gash. The boy scowled and
winced but made no complaint, although his bruised face was very
pale.

"Must have made you feel pretty foggy," said the surgeon. "I shall
have to put in a few stitches. It was a deuce of a thump."

"I couldn't see very well and my legs went queer for a few
minutes, but I'm all right now, thanks," replied the full-back,
and then, glancing up, he espied his father standing near the
door. The young hero of the game beckoned him with a grimy fist.
Henry Seeley went over to him, took the fist in his two hands, and
then patted the boy's cheek with awkward and unaccustomed
tenderness.

"Sit still, Ernest. I won't interfere with the doctor's job. I
just wanted to let you know that I saw your bully work. It made me
think of--it made me think of--"

Henry Seeley's voice broke curiously and his lip quivered. He had
not meant to show any emotion.

His son replied with a smile of affectionate admiration: "It made
you think of your own teams, didn't it? And I was thinking of you
in that last half. It helped my nerve a whole lot to remember that
my dad never knew when he was licked. Why, even the coaches told
me that between the halves. It put more ginger into me than
anything else. We've got to keep up the family record between us."

The father looked beyond the boy as if he were thinking of a
bigger, sterner game than football. There was the light of a
resurrected determination in his eyes, and a vibrant earnestness
in his voice as he said:

"I'm not worrying about your keeping the family record bright,
Ernest. And, however things may go with me, you will be able to
hang fast to the doctrine which helped you to-day, that your
father, too, doesn't know when he is whipped."

GALLEGHER

A NEWSPAPER STORY

BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS

This is an illustration of a popular type of the short-story. The
movement from beginning to end is swift and urgent; something
important is happening all the time. Description is reduced to the
minimum, and where it is used does not impede the action. The
local color of a great newspaper office in a large city
contributes to the impression of orderly activity and haste.
Gallegher, moreover, is the kind of character that enlists
sympathy by his youth, his daring, and his resourcefulness.

GALLEGHER

[Footnote: From "Gallegher and Other Stories," by Richard Harding
Davis. Copyright, 1891, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]

We had had so many office-boys before Gallegher came among us that
they had begun to lose the characteristics of individuals, and
became merged in a composite photograph of small boys, to whom we
applied the generic title of "Here, you"; or "You, boy."

We had had sleepy boys, and lazy boys, and bright, "smart" boys,
who became so familiar on so short an acquaintance that we were
forced to part with them to save our own self-respect.

They generally graduated into district-messenger boys, and
occasionally returned to us in blue coats with nickel-plated
buttons, and patronized us.

But Gallegher was something different from anything we had
experienced before. Gallegher was short and broad in build, with a
solid, muscular broadness, and not a fat and dumpy shortness. He
wore perpetually on his face a happy and knowing smile, as if you
and the world in general were not impressing him as seriously as
you thought you were, and his eyes, which were very black and very
bright, snapped intelligently at you like those of a little black-
and-tan terrier.

All Gallegher knew had been learnt on the streets; not a very good
school in itself, but one that turns out very knowing scholars.
And Gallagher had attended both morning and evening sessions. He
could not tell you who the Pilgrim Fathers were, nor could he name
the thirteen original States, but he knew all the officers of the
twenty-second police district by name, and he could distinguish
the clang of a fire-engine's gong from that of a patrol-wagon or
an ambulance fully two blocks distant. It was Gallegher who rang
the alarm when the Woolwich Mills caught fire, while the officer
on the beat was asleep, and it was Gallegher who led the "Black
Diamonds" against the "Wharf Rats," when they used to stone each
other to their hearts' content on the coal-wharves of Richmond.

I am afraid, now that I see these facts written down, that
Gallegher was not a reputable character; but he was so very young
and so very old for his years that we all liked him very much
nevertheless. He lived in the extreme northern part of
Philadelphia, where the cotton-and woollen-mills run down to the
river, and how he ever got home after leaving the Press building
at two in the morning, was one of the mysteries of the office.
Sometimes he caught a night car, and sometimes he walked all the
way, arriving at the little house, where his mother and himself
lived alone, at four in the morning. Occasionally he was given a
ride on an early milk-cart, or on one of the newspaper delivery
wagons, with its high piles of papers still damp and sticky from
the press. He knew several drivers of "night hawks"--those cabs
that prowl the streets at night looking for belated passengers--
and when it was a very cold morning he would not go home at all,
but would crawl into one of these cabs and sleep, curled upon the
cushions, until daylight.

Besides being quick and cheerful, Gallegher possessed a power of
amusing the Press's young men to a degree seldom attained by the
ordinary mortal. His clog-dancing on the city editor's desk, when
that gentleman was upstairs fighting for two more columns of
space, was always a source of innocent joy to us, and his
imitations of the comedians of the variety halls delighted even
the dramatic critic, from whom the comedians themselves failed to
force a smile.

But Gallegher's chief characteristic was his love for that element
of news generically classed as "crime."

Not that he ever did anything criminal himself. On the contrary,
his was rather the work of the criminal specialist, and his morbid
interest in the doings of all queer characters, his knowledge of
their methods, their present whereabouts, and their past deeds of
transgression often rendered him a valuable ally to our police
reporter, whose daily feuilletons were the only portion of the
paper Gallegher deigned to read.

In Gallegher the detective element was abnormally developed. He
had shown this on several occasions, and to excellent purpose.

Once the paper had sent him into a Home for Destitute Orphans
which was believed to be grievously mismanaged, and Gallegher,
while playing the part of a destitute orphan, kept his eyes open
to what was going on around him so faithfully that the story he
told of the treatment meted out to the real orphans was sufficient
to rescue the unhappy little wretches from the individual who had
them in charge, and to have the individual himself sent to jail.

Gallegher's knowledge of the aliases, terms of imprisonment, and
various misdoings of the leading criminals in Philadelphia was
almost as thorough as that of the chief of police himself, and he
could tell to an hour when "Dutchy Mack" was to be let out of
prison, and could identify at a glance "Dick Oxford, confidence
man," as "Gentleman Dan, petty thief."

There were, at this time, only two pieces of news in any of the
papers. The least important of the two was the big fight between
the Champion of the United States and the Would-be Champion,
arranged to take place near Philadelphia; the second was the
Burrbank murder, which was filling space in newspapers all over
the world, from New York to Bombay.

Richard F. Burrbank was one of the most prominent of New York's
railroad lawyers; he was also, as a matter of course, an owner of
much railroad stock, and a very wealthy man. He had been spoken of
as a political possibility for many high offices, and, as the
counsel for a great railroad, was known even further than the
great railroad itself had stretched its system.

At six o 'clock one morning he was found by his butler lying at
the foot of the hall stairs with two pistol wounds above his
heart. He was quite dead. His safe, to which only he and his
secretary had the keys, was found open, and $200,000 in bonds,
stocks, and money, which had been placed there only the night
before, was found missing. The secretary was missing also. His
name was Stephen S. Hade, and his name and his description had
been telegraphed and cabled to all parts of the world. There was
enough circumstantial evidence to show, beyond any question or
possibility of mistake, that he was the murderer.

It made an enormous amount of talk, and unhappy individuals were
being arrested all over the country, and sent on to New York for
identification. Three had been arrested at Liverpool, and one man
just as he landed at Sydney, Australia. But so far the murderer
had escaped.

We were all talking about it one night, as everybody else was all
over the country, in the local room, and the city editor said it
was worth a fortune to any one who chanced to run across Hade and
succeeded in handing him over to the police. Some of us thought
Hade had taken passage from some one of the smaller seaports, and
others were of the opinion that he had buried himself in some
cheap lodging-house in New York, or in one of the smaller towns in
New Jersey.

"I shouldn't be surprised to meet him out walking, right here in
Philadelphia," said one of the staff. "He'll be disguised, of
course, but you could always tell him by the absence of the
trigger finger on his right hand. It's missing, you know; shot off
when he was a boy."

"You want to look for a man dressed like a tough," said the city
editor; "for as this fellow is to all appearances a gentleman, he
will try to look as little like a gentleman as possible."

"No, he won't," said Gallegher, with that calm impertinence that
made him dear to us. "He'll dress just like a gentleman. Toughs
don't wear gloves, and you see he's got to wear 'em. The first
thing he thought of after doing for Burrbank was of that gone
finger, and how he was to hide it. He stuffed the finger of that
glove with cotton so's to make it look like a whole finger, and
the first time he takes off that glove they've got him--see, and
he knows it. So what youse want to do is to look for a man with
gloves on. I've been a-doing it for two weeks now, and I can tell
you it's hard work, for everybody wears gloves this kind of
weather. But if you look long enough you'll find him. And when you
think it's him, go up to him and hold out your hand in a friendly
way, like a bunco-steerer, and shake his hand; and if you feel
that his forefinger ain't real flesh, but just wadded cotton, then
grip to it with your right and grab his throat with your left, and
holler for help."

There was an appreciative pause.

"I see, gentlemen," said the city editor, drily, "that Gallegher's
reasoning has impressed you; and I also see that before the week
is out all of my young men will be under bonds for assaulting
innocent pedestrians whose only offence is that they wear gloves
in mid-winter."

. . . . . . .

It was about a week after this that Detective Hefflefinger, of
Inspector Byrnes's staff, came over to Philadelphia after a
burglar, of whose whereabouts he had been misinformed by
telegraph. He brought the warrant, requisition, and other
necessary papers with him, but the burglar had flown. One of our
reporters had worked on a New York paper, and knew Hefflefinger,
and the detective came to the office to see if he could help him
in his so far unsuccessful search.

He gave Gallegher his card, and after Gallegher had read it, and
had discovered who the visitor was, he became so demoralized that
he was absolutely useless.

"One of Byrnes's men" was a much more awe-inspiring individual to
Gallegher than a member of the Cabinet. He accordingly seized his
hat and overcoat, and leaving his duties to be looked after by
others, hastened out after the object of his admiration, who found
his suggestions and knowledge of the city so valuable, and his
company so entertaining, that they became very intimate, and spent
the rest of the day together.

In the meanwhile the managing editor had instructed his
subordinates to inform Gallegher, when he condescended to return,
that his services were no longer needed. Gallegher had played
truant once too often. Unconscious of this, he remained with his
new friend until late the same evening, and started the next
afternoon toward the Press office.

As I have said, Gallegher lived in the most distant part of the
city, not many minutes' walk from the Kensington railroad station,
where trains ran into the suburbs and on to New York.

It was in front of this station that a smoothly-shaven, well-
dressed man brushed past Gallegher and hurried up the steps to the
ticket office.

He held a walking-stick in his right hand, and Gallegher, who now
patiently scrutinized the hands of every one who wore gloves, saw
that while three fingers of the man's hand were closed around the
cane, the fourth stood out in almost a straight line with his
palm.

Gallegher stopped with a gasp and with a trembling all over his
little body, and his brain asked with a throb if it could be
possible. But possibilities and probabilities were to be
discovered later. Now was the time for action.

He was after the man in a moment, hanging at his heels and his
eyes moist with excitement.

He heard the man ask for a ticket to Torresdale, a little station
just outside of Philadelphia, and when he was out of hearing, but
not out of sight, purchased one for the same place.

The stranger went into the smoking-car, and seated himself at one
end toward the door. Gallegher took his place at the opposite end.

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