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The Sunday Times - Akron Times Press

Akron, Ohio Sunday, April 1, 1928

Serial Number Three

STORY  OF  TOM  DARE  AT  THE  MARBLE  TOURNEY

By HOWARD STEPHENSON

SYNOPSIS: Tom Dare, eighth grader at Lincoln School, is disciplined by Principal Stryker for playing marbles for keeps with Willie Alvord, a new boy. Tom promises Mr. Stryker that he will not fight Willie, but goes to the place where they had agreed to meet and fight it out. He does not intend to fight, but decides to be brave enough to meet the jeers of his playmates. Willie does not show up and Skinny Noble, Tom's true friend, proclaims him the winner. Tom sees Willie being mean to a little boy and defends the youngster. That night Tom meets, Skinny's Uncle Jim, a World War hero who tells the boys how the game of marbles is played and has been played for many centuries. Tom also learns that a Marble Tournament is to be held at his school and that the city champion is to have a free trip to Atlantic City: NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY 

Chapter 5

PRACTICE

TOM DARE, to tell the truth, had expected to cause a good deal of excitement among the boys of Lincoln School with the news that a marble tournament was to be held in their city. But, to his surprise, everybody, seemed to know about it next morning, and indeed some of the boys were already forming a ring for a practice game when he came running up the school yard almost a half hour before the last bell.

     Paul Carey, another 8th grader had a newspaper clipping of the rules of ringer, the official marble game, in his hands, and was attempting to smooth it out and read it in the blowing wind. Skinny Noble was getting ready for the game.

     "The ring is 10 feet in diameter," Paul called.

     Skinny scratched his head. "Good Night! What's diameter?" he asked. Billy Smith, 6th grade boy, who was holding a long string, with which he intended marking out the ring, jeered, "Gee, haven't you even learned that yet? It's how far across a circle is. If it's 10 feet, we need a five foot string to measure. Five feet is the radius."

     "Oh, sign off," growled Skinny. "Don't talk so much and let's measure the ring." With Billy holding one end of the five-foot string tight in one place, Skinny was able to describe or draw a 10-foot circle simply by trailing the other end of the stretched-out string around his playmate.

     "Now draw line tangent to the circle and touching it at one point," Paul Corey, still reading the rule, directed. Skinny drew a straight line at one side of the circle, just touching it.

*    *    *

"THAT is the lag line," Paul said,

     "Now draw another one just opposite it for the pitch line."

     "Oh, shucks!" Tom Dare exclaimed. "You just lag for taw, that's all. What's the use of taking so much time?"

     "Well, we have to follow directions, don't we?" Paul objected. "If we don't learn to play right, we can't win the tournament for Lincoln School."

     "Oh!" said Tom, "I never thought of that. Gee, fellows, wouldn't it be great if our school should turn out a champ?"

     "Hot diggety! Tom thinks he's going to Atlantic City," Skinny laughed.

     "Well, gee whiz," said Tom. "I guess we've all got an equal chance, haven't we? You bet your necktie I'm going to win if I can."

     "You fellows would win if it was a talking championship," Billy Smith spoke up.

     "Draw a cross in the center of the ring," Paul Carey ordered. "Lay 13 mibs on the cross, one in the center and three on each of the arms, each one three inches from the other.

     "I'll referee this first game," he added, folding the paper up and shoving it in his pocket. "I guess I understand it well enough."

     Tom Dare, Skinny Noble, Billy Smith, Bobby Scott, Fred Pence and Dave Loomis were the players. Tom won the lag and led off with a shot that took one mib. He chased his shooter to where it had rolled outside the ring, and knuckled down for a second shot. But his shooter failed to score and he had to wait until his turn came again.

*    *    *

NEXT came Skinny Noble, always a lad to be reckoned with in a marble game. Skinny put some English on his shooter, arching his shot, and while a mib spun just across the rim of the ring, his shooter lay near the center. He, too, was entitled to another shot, and he took his advantage, collecting two more mibs.

     But this "easy pickin's" led Skinny to overconfidence, and his fourth shot was a miss, his shooter remaining in the ring.

     When Billy Smith knuckled down, he naturally aimed at Skinny's shooter. For if he succeeded in knocking it out of the ring, he would collect Skinny's three mibs. But as the shooter flew from his hand, the referee shouted "No play!"

     "What's the matter?"

     "He's shootin' with a steelie. Gee; I should have noticed that before, Billy, but your shot wouldn't count. Did you lag with that steelier"

     "Say, what do you think I am - simple? I lagged with a glassie."

     "Well, you've violated the rules again. In Rule VI, Sec: 4. it says you can't change shooters. Doing that disqualifies you from the game." 

     "Aw, let him play; we don't. care,"  the other boys shouted.

     "Let him play nothing," the referee said firmly. “You kids have got to learn this game right if you mean business about getting the city championship for our school.”

     Billy Smith’s face fell, but he mustered a grin. “Go on, good players,” he said. “You know I can lick you anyway.”    

*   *   *

SO Bobby Scott aimed at Skinny’s shooter, and hit it fairly, driving it from the ring. Bobby’s shooter spun amid the marbles and pinged a mib just across the line. So he has Skinny’s three and his own gain of one and his shooter was still in the ring. One by one he picked off the mibs and sent them spinning. It was easy to see that he was going to make a cleaning.

     "Five, six, seven," Billy counted, as one by one the marbles were won.

     "Great glassies!" Tom Dare exclaimed "It's easy to see that the fellow who wins the lag in this game has the best of it. I guess that's the important part of the game."

     "Why, you won it yourself," Skinny, objected.

     "Sure I did. But, like you, I shot too fast and muffed my chances. Bob is playing it right scientifically. I'm getting the dope on his stuff and I'll know how to use it later.

     The eighth mib was hit a glancing blow by Bob's shooter. It rolled just on the ring line.

     "In or out?" he demanded of Paul Corey, the referee, before he would pick up the milb.

     "Rule III, Sec. 2. gives that," the referee said. "Whether a marble or shooter comes to rest on the ring line, if its center is outside the ring, or exactly on the ring line, it shall be considered out of the ring; if its-center is inside the ring, it shall be considered inside the ring. This mib is inside. You don't get it."

     Bob Scott stood up, his face flushing angrily. "I say it's outside," he said. "You think you know everything about the game. I guess it's because I'm winning. What's the matter; are you afraid I'll take 'em all?"

     "You shut up and play marbles." Paul commanded. "I'm refereeing this game. It's a poor sport who can smile only when the decision is in his favor. If you think you can lick anybody, the time for a scrap is when the game is over."

     "Atta boy, Paul. Give him the dickens," said Fred Pence, the next player. "Gee, I want one whack at 'em myself."

     He eyed the ring. Only five mibs were in it, the disputed one right on the ring line. He resolved to get that one, and knuckled down close to it. But in taking his shot he raised his hand from the ground. The mib spun across the ring for a win. "Put it back." the referee ordered. "You lost your shot. You were histing."

*    *    *

DAVE LOOMIS missed. Tom Dare was up again. This time he took no chances, but the mibs were so badly scattered that he won only two. Three were left and the sharp-eyed Bob Scott had no difficulty in gathering them to his tally. Final score: Scott 10, Dare 3.

     The last bell began to ring just as Bobby Scott was handing back the mills to their owners.

     "Say, where's that new kid?" Tom Dare asked Skinny Noble on their way to the classroom.

     "0h, you mean Willie Alvord, the coward that wouldn't fight you?"

     "Don't call names, Skinny."

     "Well, his papa thought there were too many roughnecks in this school for him, so he is going to Loftie School, "Skinny explained.

     "Tom gave a low whistle. "Loftie!" he exclaimed. "Say, that's a private school, ain't it? I guess his father must be a millionaire, or something."

     "Humph!" Skinny said in disgust. "I was hoping to beat him in our school marble tournament just because he thinks he's so smart."

*    *    *

LIKE every other boy in Lincoln School, Tom Dare dreamed of winning the school marble tournament, and taking his place with the pick of the city in the grand finals which were to determine the city champion. He sat at his desk in school one morning, after a brisk half-hour practice with his chums, and as he gazed at his geography book he almost seemed to see thru the map of the eastern states which was spread out before him in a picture of Philadelphia, the great city where he knew the Declaration of Independence was signed, where Benjamin Franklin, the poor printer's apprentice, had worked , and struggled and finally won fame and honor.

     Tom vaguely wondered what Independence Hall actually looked like. Would there be a real thrill in touching the Liberty Bell, that token of American freedom? Ah, when he was marble champion, he would be escorted there. The paper had been full of the excitement and adventures awaiting the marble champions of America.

     Then in Atlantic City there was to be a special train. Tom, wondered if he could possibly get to ride in the engine. Would they let him do that, seeing he was a champion? No, probably not, because there would be champs from all over the United States. Then when they got to Atlantic City --

     "Thomas, name the capital of New Jersey." It was Miss Robbins, the teacher, speaking. Tom gave a sudden start. "Atlantic City," he answered without thinking. The rest of the class laughed. Tom felt pretty foolish over betraying his secret thoughts like that. Miss Robbins could scarcely hide a smile, but she could not let discipline go.

     "You may stay half an hour after school tonight, Thomas," she said. "I told the class to close geography books some time ago. Yours is still open on your desk, tho it certainly does not seem to be doing you any good."

*    *    *

TOM blushed deeply as another giggle went around the classroom. He banged the geography shut and tried to look as if he didn't care. But he DID care, very much indeed. For half an hour away from Ringer practice might mean the loss of his dreams. He decided to be more practical, and not dream at the wrong time again.

     For the Lincoln School Tournament had been set for that very week. With Willie Alvord, the new boy, transferred to Loftie Private School, Tom had only a few marble sharpshooters to fear. Chief of these was Billy Smith, six grader; Skinny Nobel, Tom’s classmate, and Bobby Scott, who had trimmed Tom so completely in their first practice game. These four had been playing together at every chance they got, to keep in the best of shape. They were friendly foes.

     At home Tom had found a careful coach in his sister, Doris. She was proud of her brother, and tho she was no poor shot herself she preferred to play in private with him. She proved to be a little tyrant as the date for the school tournament closed in, and she would not allow Tom to neglect his Ringer practice for one single night.

     "Aw, gee," Tom protested, the night before the tourney. "I'll go stale if you keep this up." But Doris shook her wise young head. "I know you'd rather moon about thinking how nice it would be to be a champion," she said. "but I'm going to make a champion of you. There's, just one way to do that, and that's practice."

     Tom good-naturedly laid out the mibs on the parlor rug, and the two held a spirited contest.

*    *    *

THE day of Lincoln School tournament dawned bright and fair. There was an air of excitement all about the school. Tom wore a handkerchief about his right hand. He had smeared his knuckles with lard that morning. Skinny Noble's method was to keep rubbing his hand and wrist and moving his knuckles, while Bobby Scott had brought the sack of salt to school with him. All thru recess Bobby sat with his hands plunged in salt water.

     Very serious were these young gladiators of the marble ring. They were out to win.

     Deportment in the eighth grade was as near perfect that day as it ever had been. Nobody was taking chances of staying after school. As the dismissal bell rang and the phonograph in the corridor started playing for the classes to march out, Skinny Noble looked at Tom suddenly, and Tom looked at him. Friends for years, they were about to meet in real combat for the first time. Both of them felt the importance of the occasion, and shyly their hands met and they passed to each other the secret grip of their gang.

     On the playground the confusion of the first few minutes turned quickly into order as the 10-foot rings were marked off, and play began. Tom was calm now. All the fear, all the excitement had passed. He rubbed his hands in the dirt, and shined up his brand-new glassie. The rules call for a shooter either one-half or six-eighths inch in diameter, and Tom had chosen a dark green glassie of the six-eighths size. He had wanted to buy a beautiful gray agate, but they cost too much.

*    *    *

HE sized up the boys in his first ring. They were no great shakes as players. Full of confidence and determination to win, Tom played a slow game and in five minutes time was ring winner. The referee gave him the score card which showed his victory, and in a few minutes he was again laging for taw, pitted against winners of five other rings.

     This game was not so easy. Tom began to open pup some of his stuff. The lads who had been defeated, gathered around, cheering, jostling and kidding the players. Tom paid no attention to them. He knew that to do so would be the surest way of losing his nerve.

     By a close margin of seven mibs to six he nosed out Billy Smith. Between them they had eliminated all the other four in this ring. Billy looked rather sad, bit his lip and said nothing. After all, he would have another chance next year.

     Thru two more rings Tom Dare fought, all the marble skill at his command was called for now. His hat off, hair towsled, necktie awry, he was intent on the game and the game alone. Breathlessly he awaited every call of the referee, counted every mib with a pounding heart. Victory was coming near. He just HAD TO WIN.

     To his surprise, a cheer went up and at the end of it, "Tom Dare!" Why, they were cheering him! But now it was "Skinny Noble! Hurrah for Skinny Jim!" Tom was dumbfounded. The almost impossible had happened. The two survivors of the Lincoln School Tournament, who must play off the school title, were Skinny Noble and himself.

*    *    *

TOM DARE and Skinny Noble lagged for taw. Both of them made little "magic" passes over their shooters before they tossed them toward the 10-foot line, and Skinny spit on his. The marbles sailed across the ring at almost the same time. Both made perfect arcs and came to rest without rolling. Tom's was two inches nearer the line than Skinny's.

     The loser grinned and tightened his belt. The referee delayed the game long enough to draw a second ring, three feet outside the playing ring. He ordered all spectators to keep outside this outer ring.

     The game went so quickly that both Tom and Skinny were surprised that it was all over. But once more the advantage of winning the lag showed itself. Tom took a run of four at the very start, and Skinny never could quite overcome this. Final score: Tom Dare, 8; James Noble, 5.

     Tom stood up, and looked at his pal. It was a hard moment. He felt right then that he would a thousand times rather have lost. For from the look on Skinny's face it seemed for a second that he was going to break. But slowly he raised his eyes until they met those of his pal. Then he smiled and when Tom saw the grin he smiled happily, too.

     "Put'er there, you monkey-faced hyena," Skinny said: "You win."

     But Bob Scott, Paul Carey, Billy Smith and a dozen others came rushing across the ring. They grabbed Tom, threw him on their shoulders and marched him around the school yard. Then, just to make sure that he wouldn't have a swelled head, they gave him his bumps on the ground. Tom went thru this laughing. He had won, he had won. It seemed like a little song in his head now. He MUST win the district championship.

     In the back of his mind was a little worry. Somehow he felt that Willie Alvord was just as good a marble player as he was, perhaps a shade better. What if he would have to meet him in the championship game? But, when he read over the names of the school winners in his district he saw that Loftie School was not included. It had been put in one of the other districts.

     One bright Saturday morning early in April, Tom, accompanied by several score of enthusiastic rooters from Lincoln, made his way to Sterling Park, to play in the district tournament. From what he had been able to learn, this district contained some of the best marble shots in the entire city. All the way over on the streetcar, Skinny Noble kept pouring advice into his ear.

     "Now listen, Tom," Skinny said. "I'm your coach and you' ve got to do what I tell you. You almost lost that game with me because you got in a hurry. Now, after you take a shot, don't jump and run after your shooter. Take your time. You're champion and they've got to let you take time to play. Walk to where your shooter lies, don't jump over the ring like a Jack-rabbit. Some of these high school kids are going to try to get your goat. Just forget everything but that aggie."

     "Some shooter, eh?'' Tom smiled, holding up the smoke gray beauty. Skinny had bought it for him the day after their match at Lincoln School. Now Tom frowned a little as he looked at his pal.

     "Skinny, if you weren't so homely already, I'd muss up your face for wasting your money like that," he remarked. It was his way of expressing his thanks, and Skinny understood.

     "Aw, you talk too much," he said.

     At the district tournament rules were even more strictly observed than they had been at school. The players were lined, up and ordered to hold out their shooters. The tournament supervisor then measured each shooter, with a marble gauge to assure its being the exact size. With mibs, the supervisor was not quite so particular. So long as they were five-eighths inch in diameter, he let them pass. This was because in manufacturing the small clay marbles called XXXXX Hoodles, Commies XXXXX XXXXX possible to turn XXX XXXX XXXXX sizes.

     In the first ring in XXX XXXX found himself, there XXX XXXX gravel and a few twigs. The first player, Walter Armstrong of Roosevelt School, started to clear the way before taking his shot.

     “Hey,” Skinny Nobel protested to the referee, “he isn’t allowed to do that.”

     “That’s right sonny,” the referee said. I’ll do it.” So he cleaned the ring off.

     “Who are you?” the referee asked Skinny.

     “Oh, I’m the coach of Dare of Lincoln,” the latter said proudly.

     “Well Mr. Coach, it’s alright to talk to me, but if I catch you coaching during play, you’ll get chased off the field.”

     Skinny was silent, but when the referee’s back was turned he stuck out his tongue at him. “Bah, I know Rule VI. Sec. 6 as well as you do,” he said under his breath. But he was careful not to disobey.

     Tom Dare needed no coaching in the district tournament. Tho he had lost the lag in his first ring thru nervousness, he soon got a grip on himself, and by a clever shot with lots of "English" on his new agate, he placed himself so that he could take a run of five. This play won the ring for him.

     Tom noticed, while he was standing around waiting to play in the next ring, that most of the boys were ill at ease and very nervous They were playing in strange territory, most of them, in the presence of many people they did not know. So when Tom's turn to play came again, he pretended he was back in Lincoln School yard and that these strange opponents were his chums:

     By chance one of them, who was his hardest opponent, looked some thing like Tubby Watters, the clumsiest marble player in Lincoln School who had not survived even the first ring. Tom watched this fellow shoot, and when he hit a mib out Tom laughed. His opponent looked at him in surprise.

     "Say, kid," he demanded, “if you think that's funny, wait till I kill you're shooter."

     "Go on and play," Tom said. I didn't laugh at you. If you pay any attention to me it'll get your goat and you'll miss."

     "Fresh fish," muttered the boy who looked like Tubby Watters. He knuckled down carelessly and missed his shot. Tom followed with a clean drive across the ring for one mib, his shooter staying in the ring. From then on his winning was sure.

     In the final ring Tom faced but one opponent, George Harland of Oakland School. To the surprise of everybody, Harland refused to play after he lost the lag. " I'm not fit," he whined. "I need a rest until next Saturday." 

     "You'll play now or lose by default," the referee said.  "Look at Rule IV, Sections 6 and 7."

     "Oh, all right," Harland said. "I don't care much anyway." In this spirit no boy could be winner, and Tom made the killing short and swift.

     "I'm sorry that happened," Tom confided to Skinny Nobel as they were on their happy way home. I'd rather play a fellow that shows some fight.

     "Forget the past," Skinny advised. "You won square and honest. Now my job is to tune you up for the city finals."

(To Be Continued)