Never again. Never! Tiger slumped back in his chair, clobbered. He sagged. A tiny voice in his head though, bizarrely enough, began singing a tune, a faraway, far-off —so far off—sort of—nursery tune. He heard the voice, he sat, utterly intrigued by the voice, he paid close attention, now he could actually make out the words of the tune —certainly, most of it—He listened, fascinated . . . cockle shells and silver bells ... It was fading, he concentrated intensely on the tiny voice, he sat utterly still . . . and pretty maids all in a row. It disappeared. Tiger listened, but there was nothing more. It was all over, it just wouldn’t come anymore. He sighed, finally, and stopped listening for more. He mused over it. Certainly, there was meaning and significance in it. He sat there, musing deeply over it. And the problem. Without a doubt an awful problem. The school had never had such a problem. How could the school ever be the same again? Especially—and Tiger sank at the thought—if the culprit wasn’t cornered. Could Surcher do it? How best could he help him do it? He searched his mind, parading dozens of names, faces, before it. He was utterly mystified. Certainly he would try. Intensely occupied though he was with all his varied and sundry activities, Tiger vowed he would help him, or try to help him, the very best he could, to the best of his abilities, such as they were. Jill Fairbunn. Tiger moved now, though he wondered how. Somehow, he pulled open one of his desk drawers, where he kept his special file. He found it and took it out. He laid it on his desk and opened the folder. Just a plain manila folder. It contained, among other things, all his master plays (and variations on) for the football team. He was constantly studying and scrutinizing these, for they weren’t static things. Tiger was a gifted football coach, and had the team to prove it. Everyone knew it. He knew it. And in football, as indeed in life itself, he well knew, things couldn’t and shouldn’t be static. Dynamic. Evolving. Ever Changing. Moving. Those were the key words, and the heart of the secret of his success, well he knew. He had been approached many times by Universities seeking to replace a worn-out or unlucky or just plain mediocre football coach. And not only these. Others. A surprising number of others, whose coaches would have been even more surprised had they known of it. Tiger turned them down. All down. For he didn’t want to go. He was happy here. He loved Sawyersville. He had a very full, creative, happy, challenging way of life here. It satisfied him.
He merely glanced at the plays now though, for he was interested just at the moment in another part of this special file. He leafed through a dozen or more papers, all concerned with different areas and aspects of his varied activities, and finally found what he was looking for.
It was simply a sheet of paper with some twenty names on it, a list, in short, and he took it in his hands and studied it. His eye ran up and down it. Up, down it. As it were, caressed it . . .
The list:
1. Jill Fairbunn
2. Marjorie Evanmore
3. Hilda Linder
4. Jeannie Bonni
5. Mary Holden
6. Peggy Linski
7. Rochelle Hudson
8. Anne Williams
9. Marie Amis
10. Sally Swink
11. Kathy Bums
12. Yvonne Mellish
13. Sandra (Sandy) Seymour
14. Alice Patmore
15. Sonya (Sonny) Swingle
16. Mona Drake
17. Barbara Brook
18. Betty Smith
19. Hetty Nectar
20. Looby Loo
21. Mrs. Mortlake (7)
His eye finally stuck at the top of the list, at Jill Fair-bunn’s name, beside which four stars, penciled in red, could be seen. And they had only been put there two weeks ago, no less. Beside no other name did such a number of stars appear. Marjorie, for instance, had only two and a half, though, if anybody, she certainly was due for a move up. Hilda, Jeannie, Mary and Peggy had one apiece. Rochelle, true, had three, but they were in blue and had a very special significance indeed, in a highly unique class of their own, and couldn’t be said to represent a challenge in any real sense of the word to Jill’s brilliant four. Anne, Sally, Yvonne, had two. Mona, for the moment, none. The rest, with the exception of Hetty, who merited one and three quarters, all had one. Of course, Looby Loo—well —there again, irrefutably, a class (and category) of its own. In fact, he would have to seriously consider: Shouldn’t she be on a separate list—on her own? Tiger mused, viewing also now the name of Mrs. Mortlake, who wasn’t as yet of course on the list at all, officially, that is, at any rate, hence the question mark. That was a problem. No doubt
Tiger sighed, his eyes almost moist, surveying that first name on the list. That was all he could do, now, of course, that would be all he could ever do, now, from now on, eternally. Gone. She was gone. Forever more. Struck down, in the flower of her life, brutally. Her stars totaling four. . . .
Tiger sighed again, his throat choking up on him, as hers, indeed—the thought hit him, an awful image filled him—might have done—His eyes burned. Insane brute! His hands on her. . . . Tiger now barely contained the hot tears massed behind his eyes. They wanted to rush out, flood everything. . . .
He picked up a pencil, black, indelible, a marking pencil, such as he used to process the Bernkrokkler. He did what had to be done, though most, most reluctantly. He drew a line through her name, with the pencil, slowly, funereally. It was the only way. ... He reached the end. He was at the stars. He was in agony. He went through them. . ..
The phone rang.
The pencil had just completed its sad journey.
The phone rang again.
His eye strayed slowly now away from the top of the list and moved down the list
He picked up the phone, murmured a dead hello into it. He held, surveyed, the list.
“Is that you, Tiger?’’ said a young male voice, in his ear.
“Right,” Tiger replied, barely.
“Gee I’m glad to find you!”
Tiger was at number eleven on the list. He lingered there.
“Who is this?” he queried, though he thought he knew.
“Ponce, Tiger! It’s me!” said the voice.
He had thought right, alright.
“Ponce! How are you?” he queried.
For he liked the boy. A most helpful boy. Sharp as a tack. Industrious too. Wanted to be a writer. Tiger grinned. A scribe. Very interested in art, music, that kind of thing. Teaching too. And football, of course. For no doubt about it, he was a sort of assistant coach to him, not just equipment manager, as he was supposed to be. College material, and how. The voice was distressed though.
“Well, not too good. Tiger, to tell you the truth,” the lad said. “In fact, pretty low,” he confessed.
Tiger nodded into the phone, understandingly, “It’s rough, I know, Ponce. A hard one,” he said to the lad.
“Gee whiz, Tiger—” The voice said, all choked up.
“Where are you?” Tiger asked, gently.
“They sent me home, Tiger.”
“Did they? Who did, Ponce?” he asked the lad.
“Uh—Mr. Proffer—and the Captain—” the answer came.
Tiger reflected.
“Well—maybe it wasn’t a bad idea, Ponce—in view of the circumstances—” he finally said.
“But I feel lousy! Lousy!” the lad blurted out. “Tiger— can I talk to you?” He shot out.
Tiger reflected again.
“Sure,” he said, “Of course you can.” He paused, a moment, “When would you like to?”
“Anytime,” the lad answered, “Right now—any time I can—” he added.
“Well—let’s see now,” Tiger told him, his eye absolutely stuck at number fifteen on that list, “Let’s just see now,” he murmured, some life flowing back into him, definitely, his right hand dropping the black pencil now, picking up a red one, straying to no. 15 and carefully inscribing a half-star beside the name, making the total there now one and a half, almost, “I guess you could walk up here in about fifteen minutes, right, Ponce? You say you’re home?” He inquired, putting some finishing touches to his artwork.