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The Sunday Times - Akron Times Press

Akron, Ohio Sunday, April 15, 1928

Serial Number Five

STORY  OF  TOM  DARE  AT  THE  MARBLE  TOURNEY

By HOWARD STEPHENSON

A Test of Skill

ONLY two weeks until the date of the city finals in the Marble Tournament, and Tom Dare, the hope of Lincoln School, with his right hand in splints. A feeling of mournfulness seemed to settle over the entire building. Principal Stryker, who had observed the career of his eighth grade pupil, could not help sharing the general disappointment. Tom Dare had come to him the day after he hurt his hand, and had told him the whole story.

     Mr. Stryker listened gravely as Tom described his meeting with the Seventh District champion Willie Alvord, of the insults he stood and the remark about Tom "helping mama."

     "Well, my boy," said Mr-Stryker when Tom had finished. "You have learned a big lesson. You did the right thing, by not fighting, but you hurt your own hand. I know you boys are a little too lively at times. I think the fellow who can control himself is to be admired.

     "So now we will say nothing more of it except how to get you in shape for the finals. What does the doctor say?"

     "Oh. It's only a light sprain," Tom replied. "Skinny, er, I mean James Noble gives it a massaging every noon and evening, and if I rest it I think I can use it in the finals all right. But what worries me is that I can't practice. I'm afraid I'll be too clumsy to hit 'em when the time comes."

     "I'll tell you a little secret, Tom," said Mr. Stryker. "You can practice just as well as ever with your wrist laid up."

     Tom looked at him blankly, and the principal smiled:

     "It's this way," he said. "Practice with your brains instead of your hands. Get the other fellows to practice Ringer every night. You watch their play carefully. When they make a mistake, you note that down in your head. When they make a good play, study the way it was performed. Keep your mind on the game, my boy, memorize the rules so you won't be caught napping, and you can still win."

     A light slowly dawned in Tom's face. "You mean..., why, you mean  you think I still have a chance?" he exclaimed.

     "Certainly you have a chance, I don't think anybody else is "practicing" the way you'll have to. Try my plan and see if it won't work."

     With great secrecy after the fatal password of the gang had sworn them never to divulge a word of the great plan, Tom explained it to Skinny Noble, Billy Hall and Bob Scott. Skinny scratched his head.

     "I dunno, Tom," he said. "I think you'd better go on trying to shoot with your left hand. You're getting pretty fair at it."

     Tom shook his head. "No. boys," he said, "if I win it will be trying one method and one only. I'm going to practice with my brains, as Mr. Stryker said. I just want you guys to play and play and play.  And if you catch me once not paying attention, Ill give you lief to swat my sore wrist."

     So it was agreed, and in this strange way, Tom Dare "practiced" Ringer until three days before the final Marble Tournament. Then very gingerly, he began to use his right hand, to work the soreness out.

     A gray sky gave a sorry welcome on the morning of the tournament. Worried, his hand in some pain, Tom took his way to the downtown square where in the presence of a big crowd the tournament was to be held. There was go much excitement there that he promptly forgot about his wrist until the moment came to play. A band was paying military music. The mayor, the Judge of Juvenile court, the superintendent of schools and other officials were on hand. Marble rings banked up about 18 inches high had been prepared for the champions.

     The correspondent of the newspaper, who was to accompany the city champion to Atlantic City, was the busiest man about. To Tom's intense disappointment, he did not carry a notebook. In the movies Tom had seen reporters were never without a notebook and a fast-moving pencil.

     Mr. Earl, the correspondent, went down the ine shaking hands with the district champs and giving them final instructions. Tom winced a little at his grip. "Oh, yes." Mr. Earl, smiled. "you must be Dare of Lincoln. I heard about your bad wrist. Did you get in a fight or something?"

     "No, sir," Tom replied. He was embarrassed to say he hurt his hand by punching a wooden fence.

     Willie Alvord was there, dressed in a natty sport suit, with golf stockings. Tom had to acknowledge that his enemy looked the part of the winner. For a moment he was ashamed of his rather shabby clothes.

     Now the band music finished with a crash. Megaphone in hand, Mr. Earl made an announcement to the crowd. He called on the mayor of the city and that gentleman, happy at this opportunity to mingle with the representative boys of the city, stood in a group with Tom and the other champs while a newspaper photographer smiled as he pressed the little bulb on his camera.

*    *    *

IN another minute play began. As Tom carefully made the little "magic" pass for luck over his agate, he heard, above the commotion of the crowd, a shrill voice calling: "B. T. C." and again: "B. T. C." Tom snickered. It was Skinny Noble, his true pal, back in the crowd somewhere. This was a secret code massage, understood by Tom only. It meant: "Beat the coward." Tom waved his hand in the direction from which the voice came. It was a signal to Skinny to be quiet. No coaching is allowed during the games.

     Scraping his feet to make his stance sure, Tom looked at the pitch line grimly and let his aggie fly. Not a fraction of an inch off! He had made a perfect lag!

     From that moment Tom Dare was confident. It seemed as if a giant had erased this busy, noisy scene. Before him were the ring and the marbles. He forgot all else. The referee's voice came at intervals, counting scores, warning players not to hunch. Tom Dare was playing with all the soul in him.

     Ring alter ring, game after game, he saw the mibs spin out and collected a lion's share. But tho he knew he was winning, so far, the pain in his wrist grew. With three mibs in the ring, he could only take a tally of one. Altho he had a big enough lead to win this one game, he was afraid he could not last out another. His hand felt swelled up. He could scarcely force his fingers to curve around the shooter. Tom was getting desperate. What would he do?

*     *     *

SOMEBODY shoved a red score card in Tom's hand. He clutched it, wondering. He felt dizzy. Gradually, as he stood up and stretched, the whole scene came back to him. Here he was in the midst of the city finals of the Marble Tournament, and he was winning!

     For the red card meant that he was a semifinalist. He had but one more opponent to face;

     Mr. Earl was shouting thru the megaphone again. Distinct came the words:

     "Ladles and gentlemen: In the final ring, Thomas Dare of Lincoln school, will meet William Alvord of Loftie school, for the city championship. There will be 15 minutes rest for the players"

     So that was it; Willie Alvord, his enemy, the boy who was a thorn in his side -Tom felt sick. He wanted to go home, to creep up into his bedroom, climb in and hide his head under a pillow. Oh, he could never go thru with his. His wrist pounded in pain.

     But, suddenly, clear and shrill over the shouts of the crowd came again the secret code: "B. T. C." and again "B. T. C." 

     Tom searched the crowd for a sign of Skinny Noble. Here came Skinny on the run, a basin of water in his hand. The water sloshed and slopped about as he ran. Skinny was wild with excitement.

     "Hey, come here, you simpleton," he called. Tom obediently followed to a bench.

     "Roll your sleeve up," Skinny commanded. Tom did as he was bidden.

     "Now, souse your hand in this."

*     *     *

"O UCH! That's hot! Where in the world did you get hot water?" Tom asked.

     "Oh, shush up. Here, chew this lemon," Coach Skinny commanded. "Now, listen here, you awkward buffalo! You played rotten in that, last game. If you don't buck up, the gang is laying for you, and we're' going to punch the daylights out of you. What's the matter, anyway? Are you afraid of him?"

     A slow flush mounted Tom's face. "Aw, gee Skinny," he said "I wish it was you, an' not me."

     "Tom Dare"- Skinny's voice was low and tense. "If you don't play this match like a man, I'll never be your friend again. Now, I mean this. I'll never shake hands with you and Ill move my seat to the other side of the room. I - I'll tell my uncle Jim you were yellow.

     Tom laughed at that. "Yellow like this lemon, you pinhead. Gee, that hot water makes my hand feel fine. Go and sell your papers, Skinny Jim. I'm going to win this Marble Tournament "

     The whistle blew. Tom trotted to his place. Facing him was Willie Alvord.

     "Shake hands," Mr: Earl commanded. But Willie folded his arms scornfully. Tom Looked at Mr. Earl inquiringly.

     "Oh, I see," laughed the latter. "A little bad blood, eh?" "Well, Alvord, you'll have to snap out of that. Shake hands and hustle up."

     Grudgingly Willie held out his hand. Tom shook it quickly, fearful lest his enemy might attempt to give his wrist a twist.

     Warily and carefully the boys played. With sinking heart Tom saw the first game go to his rival. Lips white, left hand clenched, he played up in the second contest and won it. The third game was to decide.

     Tom won the lag. He took a quick tally of three mibs. Willie followed with a run of five. Tom rubbed his hands in the dirt, and carefully studied the ring. Slowly he knuckled down. He aimed carefully and got another, his shooter remaining in the ring. Tied now, with three mibs left. They were scattered, and Tom's shooter missed them.

     Willie was nervous. He cracked out a mib near the ring line, then missed.

     Tom shot one out, evening the score again. The last mib would tell the story. Just as the shooter left his hand, somebody in the official's bench called: "Oh, referee, just a minute. The referee turned. The mib flew from the ring. Tom stood up. The referee stepped up quickly.

     "Got 'er, eh?" he exclaimed. "Just s second now." The crowd was shouting wildly: "Dare, Dare; Tommy Dare."

     But, Willie Alvord interrupted: "Got 'er, nothing," he said. "It was a miss. There's the mib."

     Sure enough, a mib lay in the ring. Doubtfully the referee looked from one boy to the other.

     "Why, why . . . said Tom, white as a sheet. He couldn't talk.

     Mr. Earl came rushing up. "It was a win. I saw it," he said.

     "It was not," Willie Alvord insisted.

     Now Tom found his voice. "I won it, but maybe that mib was there and we didn't see it," he said doubtfully. Willie Alvord smiled shyly.

*     *     *

"WHO shot the last mib out?"

     "I did."

     "All right, that gives you another shot. Take it."

     In a cold sweat, his whole body quivering, Tom Dare knuckled down. His shooter seemed to grow smaller and smaller as he clutched it. But, strangely, the mib seemed to grow in size until it was as big as an apple. He shot. Clean and straight, the shooter met the mib, and knocked it from the ring. In spite of Willie Alvord's cheat, Tom Dare was the undisputed champion of the city.

(To Be Continued.)