Grogan ran in the direction he had seen Frybush go. He heard the pound of the boy's big feet behind him, and its voice yelling rude words. Then thick arms caught his legs and spilled him prone in a flying tackle, and huge fists began to pound his back.
"Help!" he screamed, burying his head in his arms.
"Get often there, you!" roared Zella's voice, and Grogan felt the boy plucked from his back. He rolled over in time to see Zella hoist the boy by the neck with one hand, while with the other she gave it a terrific swat on the fundament that tossed it twenty feet. The boy scrambled up and burst into tears.
"I'll fix you, Zella," it said, "and I'll ... I'll fix that shrimp, too! All I do is ask him polite for some gum, and he kicks me in the shin. I'll twist his head off —"
As Zella took a threatening step, the boy, still howling, ran around the corner of the nearest cabin.
Grogan felt his bruises and slapped the dust from his suit as Zella and Frybush burst into apologies.
"Never mind," he said. "It gave me an idea. Professor, can these ... can our friends here leave their reservation if they wanna?"
"Surely, if they're not known to be dangerous. They're not citizens, but wards of the government with certain guaranteed rights. Some have traveled widely, though they always come back."
"Why?"
"For one thing, to be among their own kind."
"Yeah," said Zella, "and you just reckon what it's like for one of us to travel on one of your measly little trains, or sleep in one of those postage-stamp-sized beds. Huh! The airlines won't even carry us."
Grogan said: "Wonder if I could talk to George Ethelbert again?"
"Don't see why not," said Frybush. "We'll pass him on our way back to the gate."
When they saw Ethelbert again, still playing catch, Grogan called him over and asked: "George, how'd you like to be a professional football player?"
"Huh? What? You mean play football for money?"
"Sure. I could make you one."
George Ethelbert thought for a moment, his sloping forehead contorted. Finally: "Thanks a lot Mr. Grogan. I hope you won't get mad if I turn you down."
"Why don't you want to, huh?"
Ethelbert twisted one large bare foot in the dust. "Well, to tell the truth I don't wanna be no football player; I wanna be an artist."
"A what?"
"An artist. You know, a guy what draws pictures."
"Wouldn't that tie you?" exclaimed Grogan, pushing his hat back on his head in puzzlement.
"But say, lemme think a minute — You know, George, maybe we can get together on this business anyway. Lemme see ... I know: you sign up with me to play ball, and I'll throw in a course at the Chicago Art Institute. Maybe you could get to be like Harry Whitehill, that baseball player that teaches that ... what you call it ... higher mathematics when he ain't playing."
"Maybe you got something there," said Ethelbert. "Give me a day to think about it. But say, how would you get me to Chicago? I can't even get into one of them railroad cars."
"Guess I'd have to hire a moving van. That gives me another idea! I'll ship you North in this truck without telling anybody, and train you secretly, and then I'll spring you in our first game of the season as a surprise! Boy, what publicity! Got some clothes, by the way? You can't run around Chi the way you are."
"Yep, I got a suit to wear into town. Had to have it made special, naturally."
"Natch," said Grogan.
The first game was to be with the Dallas Wildcats. Ethelbert, climbing into his oversized football suit, looked forward to it with some fear and some hope. On one hand, he had never faced such a large crowd of "normal" people and was sure he'd be scared to death when he lumbered into the stadium. They would stare at him and photograph him. If he fumbled or tripped, he would face the ridicule of thousands and see his blunder recorded in print. Sometimes he wished he were back on his reservation where as assistant chief he had been important in his own right and where you didn't have to watch yourself every minute.
On the other hand, once people knew" about him, he could stop this hole-in-the-corner existence. He was living in Cicero in a tent in a backyard belonging to Bill Szymczak, the quarterback, and traveling to the practice field in Grogan's closed van. Also, he hoped that Grogan would stop stalling about taking him to the Art Institute; the manager would no longer have the excuse that people would find out about him. Other men of Ethelbert's race had warned him of the heartless way that shrimps tried to rook his kind when they had a chance.
Grogan made a little inspirational speech to the team, ending with: "... and more depends on this game than you guys got any idea of. Now, get out there and win!"
"Oh-oh," muttered Szymczak near Ethelbert. "That means the old man's in money trouble again."
"Again?" said Ethelbert uneasily.
"Sure, he's always betting his shirt and losing it or something foolish like that. Well, let's hope they don't catch up with him until after pay day."
"Okay, boys," said Day, the coach, "out we go."
The team set out through the tunnel in single file, breaking v into a run as they came out into the open. Ethelbert, being saved as a surprise, was placed at the tail of the line. He did not have to break into a run, since by simply lengthening his stride he kept up with the rest.
As the team appeared on the field, their partisans in the stands set up a roar, though a feeble one compared with that at a big amateur game with its organized rooting. Normally the noise would keep on until some of the boys took their bench while others warmed up with a little snappy passing and running.
However, the minute Ethelbert lurched out of the tunnel, the roar died as if strangled. Ethelbert could see a crawling movement go through the mass of heads around the stadium as people turned to their neighbors to ask questions. He knew something of the elaborate advance publicity by which Grogan had tried to build up interest in his mysterious new halfback, and he hoped these people were not disappointed.
Ethelbert sat down on his own special little bench of four-by-six timbers and waited, feeling thousands of eyes boring into him like needles. Then Day came over and said:
"George, we're putting you in right at the start. We kick off, but we can hold 'em for first-down and then you do your act. Don't try to tackle these guys if they come through; we don't want to kill 'em. You take it easy. What's that?"
The last was to Grogan, who said: "Seems to be some kind of parley with the referee over there. Guess they're trying to figure out a grounds for protest. Here he comes."
The referee walked over and said: "Grogan, I'd like to meet your new mystery halfback. Seems some folks have been asking whether he's eligible."
"Sure," said Grogan. "Mr. Rosso, meet George Ethelbert. See anything wrong with him?"
Rosso shrank back a little as Ethelbert put out a hand the size of a small suitcase, but braced himself and shook hands.
"N-no," he said, "unless you'd call being the size of a house something wrong. There was some talk on the other team about whether you'd run in a tame gorilla on them. Speaking of which" — he shot a keen look at Ethelbert — "can your new player talk?"
"Say something to him, George," said Grogan.
"Sure, I can talk," said Ethelbert. "What do you want me to say?"
"I guess he can talk all right," said Rosso, "but I still don't altogether like it. You guys ready?"
Martin, Grogan's first-string fullback, kicked off for the Wolves. A Wildcat caught it and ran it back to the Wildcat's thirty-yard line before he was downed.
As they lined up for the next play, Ethelbert got his first good look at the Wildcats, and they at him. The sight did not seem to please them. They kept turning to stare at him when they were supposed to be listening to their captain's instructions in the huddle.