The Fumbling Phantom

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He was still bothered about it on Friday afternoon when Snub stopped him on his way out of the gym.

“Doing anything special tonight, Bill?”

“Uh, uh.” He wondered if Snub knew why he wasn’t doing anything most evenings.

“Like to pick up a little extra change?”

“Yea-man.”

The cold eyes smiled. “Gent’s suckered me into writing a book. On how to play football. Needs photos to illustrate it. Player throwing a roll block, check block. Stuff like that. Need a couple boys to let a cameraman experiment with shots. If you’d drop around to the house after supper... we could chew it over.”

Bill said he’d be on the deck. It would be kind of a relief to have something to do besides wondering how Lou Ann was spending the evening. Probably with Zombie, — though there’d been no mention of her in the restricted conversations he’d had with his passing-partner since that afternoon at the fraternity house.

When Bill got around to the Head Coach’s house, he was astonished to find it wasn’t much bigger than his folk’s tenant-bungalow down in the cherry orchards of Banning.

No Spanish ranch-house magnificence or cut-stone grandeur here. Just a small, white stucco one-story. Not even a real patio.

A living-room not much larger than the one Bill had been brought up in, — though better furnished. Still, — no swank. Was this the way a top-notch coach had to live?

Bill, could have mentioned one member of the Athletic Counsel who came in that category, but he didn’t bring up Walch’s name.

Snub sensed the question, answered it indirectly. Mentioned that a football coach’s salary isn’t all velvet by a long shot. Man had to spend a lot on entertaining, on travel, — going to see tycoons with checkbooks that might open to provide scholarship funds. Old grads who always thought they knew ‘what was wrong with the team.’ Especially, Snub added, during the week before the climax game.

Snub said: “Let you in on something that’s no great secret. If we beat Stanford tomorrow, it means a whole big lot to me. Means we get the Rose Bowl bid... and I get a contract to coach here for another five years... at a two thousand increase. Not a fortune. About the same dough a guy could make running a fair-sized gas station. But... I could pay off part of the mortgage that’s making the roof sag. On the other hand,” he looked up at the ceiling, “if we lose, I’ll be moving on to some other college. Have to sell this place.

“That’s the tough part of making a business of football, Bill. Coach never knows from one season to the next how long he’s going to be getting his salary. Have a good year, you’re solid. Bad one the next season, — you’re out on your tail. It’s no way to make a living... but its still a swell way to live, providing you like football better than anything else except your wife.”

Bill said: “We got a good chance to take Stanford.”

“Sure. And the head coach at Palo Alto is probably saying the same thing, right about now.” Snub smiled. “You clamp onto those Thirty-twos... I’ll tackle the alumni quarterbacks.”

The man who’d induced Snub to write the manual came in. He held out his hand to Bill.

“Still want to know what’s in it for you, Cady?”

Bill shook hands with Tim Murfree. “See my agent.” He pointed to Snub. “Makes all deals.”

Murf caressed a couple of stray hairs on his billiard-ball skull. “Maybe I could make a deal to get you down to the studio tomorrow night, after the game. Special roundup program.”

Snub asked: “What’s the setup?”

The sportscaster made an extravagant gesture.

“In-tro-duc-ing the pair that beat the Stanford straight, Bill Cady, the West Coast’s own Catch-and-Carry Kid... and the greatest of all Pass Masters, Dit Zombrorowski.”

Snub Garrett smeared a hand over his face, wearily. “Better have an alternate wording... just in case.”