The Champions of the Football League

BY ELMER A. DAWSON

Author of "Garry Grayson's Hill Street Eleven," "Garry Grayson Showing His Speed," Etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY

Walter S. Rogers

NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

Copyright, 1926, by GROSSET & DUNLAP

Garry Grayson at Lenox High

"GET IN THERE, GRAYSON!" HE DIRECTED.

CHAPTER I

Straight for the Rocks

"Wonder if we'll be able to make the football eleven when we go to Lenox High."

Rooster Long stopped drawing pictures in the dust with the toe of his shoe and looked up at his companion inquiringly.

Garry Grayson, former captain and quarterback of the Hill Street eleven, shook his head doubtfully.

"I don't think we have a Chinaman's chance of making the team our first year in high," he replied. "Lenox will have plenty of material, good seasoned material, to draw on from the three upper classes. No reason why they should turn to the freshmen for recruits."

"Except that there are going to be some mighty good players among the freshmen this year," chimed in another boy, who emerged from the house at that moment and sat down on the step near which Garry was standing. "Maybe I'm speaking out of my turn, and there are some who won't agree with me—so much the worse for them—but I certainly think we turned out some pretty good players last year, if you should ask me."

The speaker was Bill Sherwood, a tall, well-developed lad who had played center on the Hill Street grammar school eleven, and was affectionately known to his mates as "Big Bill."

"You said it," agreed Nick Danter, a rather rangy, well-knit youth who lay stretched out at full length on the porch. "I'd go far enough to say that some of them could give the high school fellows a pretty nifty tussle at this minute."

"That goes not only for our Hill Street boys, but for some of the fellows of the Cherry and Webster Street schools," put in Ted Dillingham, stocky and muscular, as he leaned lazily against the finishing post of the porch railing. "Look at Pete Maddern and Tom Allison! They're no slouches when it comes to playing football, and I hear they're going to high this fall."

The boys were gathered about and on the porch of the Sherwood summer bungalow on the shores of picturesque Bass Lake, to which Garry Grayson, Rooster Long, Nick Danter and Ted Dillingham had been invited for a two week's stay, an invitation that they had gladly accepted, as they were the warmest and most congenial of friends.

All of them had graduated from the Hill Street grammar school of Lenox the preceding term, and were planning to enter the high school in the fall. The summer was nearly at an end, and they were looking forward eagerly to the new experience in store for them. Books, however, were not foremost in their thoughts at the moment.

All of them were football players, loved the great game, and had acquitted themselves well on the Hill Street football team that had won the grammar school championship the preceding season from their rivals of the Cherry and Webster Street schools. Garry Grayson especially had proved himself a remarkable player for a boy of his age.

But, good as they had been on a grammar school eleven, they knew that the high school was a different matter—all the difference, as Nick Danter had at one time expressed it, that there was "between being big frogs in a little puddle and little frogs in a big puddle."

But despite the cold water thrown on his hopes by his chums, Rooster Long still held tenaciously to his ambition.

"I don't see why we can't make a try for the team, anyway," he persisted, with a long face. "Just because we're freshmen doesn't say we have to be dumbbells and sit back and take just whatever is handed to us."

"Of course not," Garry agreed, with a touch of irony. "There's nothing to prevent our making a noise and trying to draw the attention of the upper classes to our humble position at the foot of the throne. Though, of course, there's just a chance," he admitted, his eyes kindling, "that our victories over Cherry and Webster may give us Hill Streeters a little boost even with the high and mighty Lenox fellows."

"Gee, I sure would like to be on that team!" said Rooster, with a yearning shake of his head. "They're just one degree below the college teams."

"Come out of your trance!" admonished Bill Sherwood. "We won't have a look in."

"I'm afraid you're right," agreed Garry. "If we get even as far as the scrub this year we'll be lucky. Maybe they'll let us be doormats for the regulars."

"Gee, you fellows are about as cheerful as a funeral!" cried Rooster, giving a vicious kick to an unoffending stone. "You give me the jim-jams. I've got to do something to get my mind off my troubles."

Bill Sherwood laughed lazily.

"Nothing to get so het up about, Rooster," he drawled. "We won't be the only freshmen at Lenox High this fall, you know. There will be plenty of others biting their nails on the sidelines and telling any one who will listen that they could do a mighty sight better than those boobs of regulars."

"They say that misery loves company, but that doesn't cut any ice with me," and Rooster frowned mightily. "I'd rather dodge Lenox altogether than to stand on the sidelines and watch the other fellows play."

"He's getting wild," observed the grinning Garry. He yawned and raised his arms above his head in a luxurious stretch. "What do you say we go in for a swim, Bill? That may help cool him off."

"Just what I was going to suggest, nothing else but," replied Bill, rising with alacrity. "Come on, let's jump into our bathing suits."

This formality was accomplished in a very short time, and the boys were soon out of the house and making a dash through the woods toward the shimmering waters of Bass Lake.

The Sherwood bungalow boasted a private dock from which the lads often went fishing and swimming. Bill had a canoe and also a cranky little motorboat that usually spoke out of its turn.

"It goes when you think the motor's dead," Bill had said, when describing the eccentric craft to his chums, "and it stops without the sign of a reason just when everything seems in fine working order. The only thing that has any effect on it is a good talking to, for it knows its master's voice."

He threw out his chest pompously as he spoke, but doubled up promptly when Garry poked him in the stomach.

"What do you think I am, a punching bag?" he demanded in an injured tone.

"Oh, did I hit you?" asked Garry in mock contrition. "My hand must have slipped."

At the moment the boys had no use for either craft, for on that particular afternoon they intended to be in the water and not on it.

They sat for a time on the edge of the dock, basking enjoyably in the sun, knowing that the warmer they got the more enjoyable would be the plunge into the cool waters of the lake.

It was a pretty sheet of water, with numerous miniature bays and jutting points to break the monotony of the shore line. There were many summer bungalows like the Sherwoods' cuddled among the trees near the shore of the lake, and on the north side was a fairly pretentious hotel.

On such a bright afternoon the lake was bound to be studded with the boats of pleasure seekers. Canoes slipped with graceful, gliding motion from one inlet to another, while motorboats of all descriptions chugged busily over the gleaming surface.

"All this will soon be over," remarked Garry, with a shade of regret in his voice. "I hate to see winter come."

"But before winter comes fall, and in the fall comes football," chanted Bill.

Rooster Long gave his chum an injured look.

"I thought we came here to get our minds off of football for a while," he complained. "You fellows can do what you like, but I'm going in swimming."

"You bet you are!" declared Garry, and gave Rooster a push that landed him splashing and sputtering in the seven feet of water at the edge of the dock.

Shaking the water from his eyes, Rooster shook a fist at the grinning Garry.

"Come down here and try that again," he cried.

"Come up here and I will," retorted Garry.

He raised his hands above his head, bent his body in the form of a bow, and clove the water with as clean and pretty a dive as one could wish to see.

Coming to the surface, puffing and blowing, he found himself entwined in a pair of strong arms that he discovered a moment later belonged to Rooster.

Then ensued a hilarious, aquatic wrestling match, in which each of them swallowed a good deal of water.

Bill stood on the end of the dock, rooting now for one, now for the other of his guests, until in the excitement he lost his balance and fell among them throwing the combatants into temporary confusion.

"He's busting up the fight!" gurgled Rooster. "Let's put him under."

And so, as often happens to the innocent bystander, Bill was set upon by both Garry and Rooster and finally was forced to duck and swim some distance under water to elude his tormentors.

"You had to run," called out Garry gleefully, and Bill shook a wet fist at him.

"I didn't run, I swam," he returned, grinning. "I can lick you one at a time, but two together are too many for me."

Ted Dillingham and Nick Danter had by this time come in with a splash, but they had scarcely touched the water when Garry's muscles suddenly became taut and he stared at an object out on the lake.

"Look at that motorboat!" he cried, as the other boys followed the direction of his gaze. "Must be going fifty miles an hour."

"Some fool driving," remarked Bill carelessly.

"I'll say that he's a fool!" cried Garry excitedly. "Look, fellows, he's heading straight for those rocks on the south shore!"

It was a moment before the other lads took in the seriousness of the situation.

Then with a yell Bill Sherwood started swimming for the dock.

Garry guessed his intention, and reached there at the same moment, the other boys close behind their comrades.

Bill jumped into his own eccentric motorboat, Garry tumbling in after him. By the time he had loosened the rope that tied the boat to the dock all five were on board.

For once the engine worked without protest. Bill, who was a master hand at working the craft urged the cranky motor to its limit and headed the nose of the boat toward the south shore.

The drivers of the strange motorboat were steering crazily, and those in the small craft who found themselves in the way turned tail and scuttled for cover.

"Why don't they turn out?" exclaimed Garry, in a frenzy of anxiety. "Are they blind? Can't they see that they're heading right for the rocks?"

"They're either idiots or they don't know how to run a boat," muttered Bill, as he bent himself to the task of getting out of his engine all the speed possible.

"Or else they've lost their heads and are too scared to try to steer at all," commented Rooster. "Gee, but that was a close shave!" he added, as the strange craft barely missed running down a canoe.

Bill's boat was now whizzing along like a comet, and the distance between it and the other craft was rapidly diminishing. The boys could now see quite clearly the inmates of the runaway vessel.

There were but two of them, boys apparently of about the age of Garry and his chums, and they seemed to be arguing about the possession of the wheel.

Garry made a megaphone of his hands and shouted:

"Turn out! You're heading for the rocks. Turn out!"

Even as he spoke there came a flash of fire, a sharp report, and the motorboat crashed against the rocks!

CHAPTER II

A Gallant Rescue

The occupants of the ill-fated craft were thrown clear of it just as the wreck broke into a mass of flames.

"They went down over there, Bill!" cried Garry, pointing to the spot where the strangers had disappeared. "Better slow down and I'll dive for them."

"I'm with you," declared Rooster, who was almost as expert a swimmer as Garry Grayson.

Bill nodded and brought the boat sharply about. Garry poised on the edge of the deck for a moment and then dived into the transparent water, closely followed by Rooster Long.

As Garry came up he saw one of the victims of the wreck struggling in the water and trying to keep his head above the surface.

The owner of the head was evidently in a frenzy of fear.

"Save me! Help! I'm drowning!"

The words came in sputtering yelps, and Garry struck out for the imperiled youth. In a moment he was at the boy's side.

"Put your hand on my shoulder," he directed. "Easy now. You're all right. We've got a boat right here."

What was Garry's surprise to feel the arms of the other boy close about him in a grip that seemed to be made of steel!

Garry's arms were pinioned close to his sides. He was powerless to make a move to save either himself or the fear-crazed lad who seemed determined to drown them both.

Garry heard a cry from Bill Sherwood and knew by the sound that the motorboat was being turned around and headed toward the spot where he struggled vainly to rid himself of that iron clutch around his shoulders.

Garry Grayson had been born and brought up in the thriving town of Lenox, a place of about fifteen thousand inhabitants, situated on the Sheldon River about two miles from Bass Lake. He was now about thirteen years old, a frank, likable, courageous boy, a leader in the sports of his age, and extremely popular with his mates.

His father was Joseph Grayson, a prominent lawyer of the town and active in its civic life. His mother was a refined, gracious woman, to whom her son was devoted. Garry had a twin sister, Ella, a pretty, merry girl, who teased her brother unmercifully, though in fact she was very fond and proud of him.

Among Garry's closest friends were Ted Dillingham and Nick Danter, whose fathers were partners in the largest department store in town. Others with whom he was on the most friendly terms included Tom Long, otherwise Rooster, and Bill Sherwood. All of them had been on the football team of the Hill Street grammar school, which had won the championship from similar schools in the town, and their enthusiasm for the game had still further cemented their friendship. Now they had graduated from the intermediate school and were preparing to enter the Lenox high school in the fall.

They had found the road to the championship no easy one. There had been traitors in their own school who had done their best to have Hill Street lose. Chief among these had been Chatwood Johns and Bud Warding who were disgruntled and envious because they had been put off the scrub team for playing dirty football. There was, too, another enemy, Sandy Podder, a vicious, dissipated pupil of the Lenox high school, who had caused Garry and his chums no end of trouble.

How Garry Grayson and his teammates overcame all obstacles; how, with the aid of a gypsy girl, they exposed a mystifying conspiracy—these and other exciting incidents are narrated in the first volume of this series, entitled: "Garry Grayson's Hill Street Eleven; or, The Football Boys of Lenox."

And now to return to Garry in his desperate plight as he was seeking to rescue the boy who had been thrown into the lake from the wrecked motorboat.

As the water closed over Garry's head he put all his strength into a straining, outward movement of his imprisoned arms. He felt the grip of his companion relax a little. He tried again with still better results. He kicked downward desperately with his feet to bring them both to the surface for the air his lungs demanded. He felt the grip of the other boy definitely relax. The latter had either fainted from fright or had drawn so much water into his lungs as to become unconscious.

With a feeling of immense thankfulness, Garry drew his arms free, seized the boy by the hair and brought him to the surface.

Garry was terribly weak himself by this time from muscular and mental strain. He gulped in the air, the while treading water. He shifted his grip to the strange boy's shoulders, keeping his head well above the surface.

"Safe, old boy? I was beginning to get mighty scared."

It was Bill Sherwood's voice, and, looking up, Garry saw the motorboat looming above him.

"Take this fellow, will you, Bill?" he gasped. "I'm all in."

It was the work of a moment for the boys in the boat to relieve Garry of his unconscious burden, then reach a hand to their chum and help him scramble over the side of the boat.

Rooster had reached the dripping deck only a moment before with the second inmate of the wrecked craft. He had had no such close call as Garry, however, for the other lad, though temporarily dazed, could himself swim and required only a little of Rooster's assistance.

The second boy shook the water from his clothes and regarded his unconscious friend without much concern.

"Seems pretty well done up," he remarked unemotionally. "Seems as though he'd tried to get the whole lake down his windpipe."

"He has got a good part of it, and it's up to us to get it out of him in a hurry," replied Bill. "Pitch in, you fellows, and take turns in doing as I do."

Bill Sherwood knelt down by the side of the pallid-faced youth and, with the help of some of his comrades, began to work the unconscious lad's arms over his head and back again and apply other first aid principles with which they were all familiar.

The wreck of the motorboat had been witnessed by many others on the lake, and various craft gathered quickly at the scene of the disaster, some from mere curiosity, others with a laudable desire to extend help, should help be needed.

Some of them were of service in extinguishing the flames of the wrecked vessel before it was wholly destroyed. Most of the upper part was burned, but there was still enough of the hull left to warrant the belief that the boat might be rebuilt.

One boat that swung alongside happened to have a doctor aboard.

"Can I be of any help?" the doctor called out.

"You might come aboard and take a look at him, though I think he's coming to all right," replied Garry.

"Right you are," pronounced the doctor, after a brief examination. "He's opening his eyes now. Luckily, he missed the rocks and only hit the water. And you fellows have done a good job in getting that out of him. All he needs is rest, but it will be just as well to get him home as soon as possible."

"We'll do that," promised Bill, and with a friendly wave of his hand to the doctor stepped again into his own boat and departed.

The prostrate lad opened his eyes and looked around with a frown on his face. He did not speak, nor did the Lenox boys urge him to, but waited for him to get his strength back.

The other lad from the wrecked craft had watched their efforts with more or less interest, but had not volunteered to take part in them. There was evidently no love lost between him and his companion.

There had been a gleam of recognition in Bill's eyes when the less injured lad had scrambled on board, and now that Bill had a moment of respite he introduced the newcomer to his companions.

"This is Jerry Cox, fellows," Bill said informally. "My brother Frank knows him. Jerry, let me introduce Garry Grayson, Rooster Long, Ted Dillingham and Nick Danter. Perhaps you know some of them already."

"Only by name," returned Jerry Cox, as he seated himself on a box near by with a cheerful grin on his face. "Garry Grayson sure led a wicked team for Hill Street last year and Rooster Long did some classy work as back. Gee, I wish I could play the kind of football you fellows put up!"

Both Garry and Rooster warmed to the genuine enthusiasm of their new acquaintance. Here was a football fan like themselves. Garry wondered at the dislike that was evident in Bill's tone as he made the introductions, and made a mental note that he would ask him about it the first time he had an opportunity.

"I should think you would be satisfied with your own special game," Bill said now in the same cold, unfriendly tone. "I hear from Frank that you play a wicked game of pool."

"Wicked is right," agreed Jerry amiably. "I don't need much advice when I have a cue in my hand."

They were interrupted by a fretful voice.

"Why are you keeping me out here?" queried Jerry's companion. "Why don't you take me to shore?"